Patches of Green
by I am Cara
Summary: When a strange turn of events forces Race and Spot to go into hiding, will they be able to adjust to their new lives? And is there a different side to Spot you haven't seen? Rated for sex, violence and language. SpotOC, RaceOC
1. A Normal Day

Patches of Green

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Disclaimer- I don't own Newsies or any characters in it.

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Chapter One

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"Hey, Spots! How many papes you got?"

Spot looked up from his newspaper, an interesting article about toxic fish under the Brooklyn Bridge. "One. An' that's faw me."

Racetrack raised an eyebrow. "Ya sold 'em all?"

"Yep." Spot grinned. His eye twitched in that familiar way.

Crutchy hobbled over. "Is tha' right?" he asked. The newsies were beginning to make a circle around the King

"Ya bet?"

"How many did ya start with?" asked Boots.

Spot broke out into an evil smile. "One hundred papes, an' I sold ninety-nine of 'em."

At this time, a whole crowd of Newsies were gathering around this living wonder that was Spot.

Ever since Jack had started going out with Sara after the strike, they saw less and less of their head honcho, so it wasn't a sin to say that Spot had become the leader of Manhattan and Brooklyn. The day after the 'war,' when Racetrack and Spot had been lounging around and doing nothing, he hitched a ride with Teddy Roosevelt so he wouldn't have to walk all the way home.

However, when he returned to the dock, he found nothing. Alas, he had left his friends back in Manhattan. So, without a companion or a ride, he made the long way to the town he was trying to get away from. Someone recalled that he had reached 'hatten again by two in the morning and had slept three days curled up on a park bench, but that was bologna. It was probably four.

"Show us tha dolla,"said Les, puffing his chest out bravely.

There was a silence, and Spot looked around at every single Newsie, eying them just long enough to make them feel uncomfortable. Ever so s l o w l y, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a dollar, not bragging, not saying anything period. The crowd gasped, and he knew he had them in the palm of his hand. Everyone started muttering excitedly.

"Brooky, can I touch it?" asked Racetrack in a high voice, snorting. Spot slapped at him and pulled his hat over his eyes nonchalantly. He leaned against the statue and said, "How 'bout ya sell papes an' make yer own dolla, ya ass?"

The crowd snorted and laughed, and Racetrack got a few playful shoves and tugs on the hat, before pointing and saying, 'Hey, it's Jack!"

Indeed, it was. Jack was strolling up the street, and when he saw his gang, he trotted over to them. Spot pulled the hat out of his face and hopped off the statue. "Jackie boy. I can only guess where ya been, with ya hair all tasseled like that and ya shirt unbuttoned." Racetrack laughed.

He spit into Jack's hand and rubbed it into his hair. "No, really. Where ya been?"

Jack shook his hair and tried to fix it. "One of da Delancey bruddas tried ta take a swing at me. Now he's swimmin' in Brooklyn."

Half of the audience laughed, but half remained silent, knowing what was coming.

Spot crosses his arms and gave him a weird look. "Jackie boy, what you been doin' in Brooklyn? You know dat's mine."

Jack made a gesture and said, "No, no, I wasn't by Sheepshead. Sara asted me ta meet her there in some dinah (diner)."

Spot sat, silent. He had an annoying hunch that Jack was lying, but bit his tongue. "Ah, Jack - be - nimble, I fawgive ya. Just tell me the next time ya goin' so I can go with ya."

He smiled. "I was just tellin' the guys here how I earned me a dolla," he said, and with a flick of the wrist, held it out.

In the blink of an eye, Jack had whipped the dollar from Spot's hand, and Spot snatched it back and shoved it in his frayed pocket with a crumple. Cowboy received a warning _clonk _on the head with a cane.

"Get yer own," Spot snapped at him.

"Then don't tease me with it."

"I ain't _teasing_ ya. I'm _showin'_ ya. I guess I hafta thank the 'Supanatrill (supernatural) Bein' Seen in Ally."

"What supanatrill bein'?" Crutchy asked, gullibly, and everyone stared at him.

Spot rolled his eyes. "Just faw that, I'm going back ta da Bay." He wanted to check his clubhouse to make sure the Delanceys didn't raid it in his absence, and this was the perfect opportunity to leave.

No one doubted that he'd leave, because Spot got what Spot wanted. So he slapped Jack on the back (no pun intended) and said, "See ya, buddy."

There were a few muttered 'bye's, and he was off.


	2. The Fight

Chapta Two

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Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies.

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**A/N:** Thanks so much for so many reviews in one chapter! Oh, just a warning, the rating has a 99 chance of going up, so if it disappears one day, search under **M**. Unless, you aren't allowed to. But, as for now, **T** all the way! WOOO:P

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Racetrack sat, anxiously, jiggling his leg and shoving popcorn in his mouth. The race at Sheepshead Bay was about to start, and he hadn't picked the greatest horse. He knew he should've invited Spot or Jack or Davey, but after blowing his quarters on refreshments and a high bet (25 cents, to be exact), he wasn't paying for anyone who decided to tag along.

The horses were at the gate. He bet on #26, a horse named the Potter's Painting. He was a pinto, and Race made sure to bet on either pintos or Arabian stallions, because mustangs went fast at first but dropped out near the end. There had been an Arabian stallion, but it was skinny as a stick and didn't look to healthy. It was #49.

"Look who it is. Racetrack, ya got ants up yer pants or sumthin'? Ya look like a earthquake waitin' ta happen."

Race glanced up to see Mush, grinning in his weird way and holding 75 cents "Oh... hey..." he said, distracted.

Mush pulled up a seat next to him and stared out at the field, where the people were waiting in apprehensive silence. "Who'd ya bet on?"

"26."

"37."

"Aww, yer gonna lose. 37 don't got no muscle on 'im."

"Neither do you, but I've seen ya run 'cross the bridge fast enough ta get to tha races in time."

"Shut yer mouth."

_BING!_ And the race was on! Both Race and Mush stood up excitedly along with the crowd, cheering and clapping and punching each other in the arm whenever they insulted each other's horses.

For a minute, Mush's horse pulled ahead, then Race's, and then, all of a sudden, both dropped back. And number 49 came in first.

Racetrack stared out at the... racetrack. He... _lost_! Not as if that hadn't happened before, but he had bet a lot! And now he had to pay it!

"Dammit!" he shouted, and that was a mistake.

Parts of the crowd turned their heads to him, and it was then he saw the Delancey boys staring at him. He froze. Not good.

"Mush," he whispered urgently. Mush was watching the horses trot back into the stables. Racetrack stood up and tapped him on the shoulder. "Mush!"

"Wha!" He sounded annoyed and distant.

"We gotta get outta here. The Delancey bruddas are here."

Mush stood up abruptly. "Where?"

Racetrack pointed, and to his horror, the Delanceys were whispering and standing up, and pointing at _him._

Mush pulled Race through the stands, shoving past people rudely and breaking out into a run towards the exit. The Delancey brothers stood up and followed after them as discretely as they could in a crowded space.

As soon as the Newsies entered the main building, they sprinted away to warn Jack, who promised he'd meet them after the race. Instead, the ran down the steps and bumped into Spot, whose cane made a wooden _clack_ whenever he took a step and he swung it violently, trying to poke someone's eye out.

At first, he didn't realize who they were and pushed them back. "Hey, assholes, where you think yer goin' in such a hurry? One of yous havin' a baby?"

After a two-second pause, his face broke into an amused grin. "Ah, it's you two fellas. How ya -"

Mush was way too anxious. "Not now, Spot," he intervened, "We got a problem."

Spot looked at him, his face darkening in a sort of anger/confusion. "What?" No one cut him off without a good reason.

"The..." Racetrack leaned over to catch his breathe, "the Delancey bruddas got us here. We gotta get "

Spot's attention was focused on the top of the steps above his comrades, and they spun around to see the Delanceys running down the stairs. Spot's face must've showed at least six different expressions, and his eyes narrowed a bit. "Come on," he said, keeping his voice low. He put his cane back in his suspenders and dodged through the crowd. Usually, the newsies had no problem fighting in front of the police on the street, but in a public place someone not involved would get hurt.

Spot led Mush and Race trailing through the crowd, but the Delancey brothers had evidently knew they'd be here. In fact, they must've planned it, because, all spaced out, was the Crib.

At the door to get out, they met up with Jack, who was just walking in. He was leaning on a wall with his arms crossed.

"Come on," said Mush, dragging him along and explaining their dilemma. The newsies were way outnumbered, about twenty to four. They'd need to get to Sheepshead Bay and reach Spot's hideout before they could fight.

TheCribs twisted through, following their every step. They saw Mush saying something to Jack, and the anger coursed through their veins. Kelly had thrown one of their men into the river, and gangs were true believers in 'An Eye for and Eye."

Fresh air. The newsies were out of the racetrack and escaped to the sidewalk. Spot took a breathe, popped a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. "You fellas know how long it takes ta get ta 'hatten?"

"'Hatten?" asked Mush, "I though we was goin' ta yer place."

Spot chuckled and blew a puff of smoke. "Sorry to pop yer bubble, but me men are still in 'hatten. There ain't no one at the dock now."

"Here's those bastards," said Jack, looking over his shoulder. And, there they were, Oscar and Moris and all their friend's friends's friends and everyone in between.

Spot delicately reached into his pocket and pulled out a marble and a slingshot. He put the marble on the rubber band and pulled back.

Race prepared himself, shaking a piece of hair out of his eye and turning his hat backwards, and put on a cocky grin. "Ah, look, Jack. I didn't know it was possible faw fungus ta walk. That should be ya next headline." he made a motion to the Delancey brothers. "Here, boydies, ya'll have ya pitcha (picture) in da papes. Get tagetha."

Oscar charged at him, but Mush had delivered a punch to his jawbone before he reached his friend. This was a match to the gasoline, and everything erupted. About six more men ran out from the racetrack building, and Spot shot one of them in the neck, causing a rather painful sting. Jack was wrestling with two thugs and beating the shit out of them.

A tall Crib member, who we'll call Charlie, ran towards Spot. Spot, due to his not-so-great height, whipped out his cane when Charlie was about three feet from him and whacked him across the stomach. He doubled over, the wind knocked out of him and a great welt rising across his chest, and a trickle of blood dripped from the corner of his mouth.

Spot let out a cruel, "Heh," and shook his hair free from his cap.

Racetrack, however, with his loud mouth, often got himself into the worst. There were at least three guys on him, punching him, kicking him, and then it happened. Moris pulled out a four inch pocket knife, with a nice bit of rust at the tip. Race's eyes widened in fear. He was lying on the ground, on his back, defenseless. He didn't feel the pain from the beating, just... fear.

All of a sudden, everyone stopped. Spot was sending danger signals, although you had to know him _really_ well to be able to tell. Jack looked up, and the punching stopped. Mush let go of the Delancey brother's hair he had been pulling, and looked up, eyes huge. No one said a word.

Moris smiled, and his fellow members held Racetrack down.

"Looks like that gotcha guys ta stop."

No one moved, afraid he'd drive the knife into their friend if they did.

"Now... we is all gentlemen here," he continued, strutting around with the knife, "So we gonna do this how it should be."

Spot made a lunge, but Oscar held him back tightly.

"Now... as I heard, ya threw one 'o my boys in da bay. An' we 'aven't found 'im yet."

"So," said Oscar, restraining the kicking Spot, "We reckon one 'o yer boys outta take a hit like ours did. Jus' ta even it up, ya know?"

Racetrack closed his eyes, and knew he had to make the best of what could be the last minutes of his life. He would die laughing. " Dear me, dey can't even swim."

Moris turned to him, and glared. Racetrack smiled evilly, and got a kick in the neck. He heard a tiny crack.

This sparked another struggle. Jack shoved everyone off him, but got tripped and fell. Mush didn't move. Everyone prepared themselves to witness a murder.

Moris kneeled down next to Race and held the knife over his stomach. He raised it up and...


	3. A Meeting

Chapta Three

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Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies.

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A/N: Ah, the long-awaited chapter. Ain't da suspense bad? I may take a while to update, 'cause my parents don't want me going on the internet, but I promise I'll try my best. So have now fear, I am still here!

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_CRACK._

A rock flew out of nowhere and slammed Moris in the head, inches away from his left eye. The force of it knocked him back, and his hands flew out, with the knife in, and cut a gash down Race's leg and thigh, four or five inches long, but not too deep. His eyes widened, and he bit his lip.

Mush ran to get the goons who held him down off, and helped him up. Racetrack's face was wincing, but smiling. He made it out alive.

Again.

A few started going after the two, but were quickly dealt with by Spot, who, in built-up anger, whipped them with the cane and shot marbles at their eyes, and some well thrown punches here or there. Jack assisted him, and after about ten more minutes, the Delanceys fled when the police arrived.

But the same question remained in everyone's mind - Who had thrown that rock?

Spot and Jack followed a thin trail of blood and footprints to the dock, where Race was sitting and some of Spot's men, who had returned, were standing over him, thinking what to do.

"Look," said Jack, examining the wound, "I ain't no nurse, but I can tell ya the best thing for that is ta sit in tha river and let tha salt clean it out. It ain't that deep."

"You kidding?" asked Spot, "Ya know wha lives in dis wata (water)? He'll be eattin' alive 'fore he even gets in there. And dat was a rusty knife."

"It only be faw a second," insisted Mush.

Spot looked at them skeptically. "I know these watas betta than the lot o' ya." He shrugged. "Yer funeral."

Luckily for my Racetrack fans, nothing ate him. With an intake of breathe and eyes closed, the boys hoisted him over the side of the dock and halfway into the water from a thick rope, except for Spot, who stood there and looked pretty and did nothing in particular except be Spot. He had warned the boys that Race could not walk into the water due to the large amounts of broken glass and smashed beer bottles that lay at the bottom. (And who's fault was that?)

"It'll cut his ass off if he tries ta sit down," is what he had said.

Racetrack clamped his hand over his mouth and moaned, "Ahhhh... And the good lawd said, 'If hedon't die', let 'im have it.'" The stinging in his leg grew strong.

The other boys were laughing, and it was obvious that Race found this oddly funny. "Ah... Stop." He squirmed, since the boys on the deck were kicking seashells on him, and looked up. "K, take me in."

After much pulling, and quite a few drops, Racetrack was back on the dock, untying the tight knot around his chest, and inspected his leg. It burned more than anything, and bruises from his other beatings were developing all over. The cut had stopped bleeding, though, and was beginning to scab up.

"Jackie boy, Mush, Race," Spot called, from atop his perch, "Meet me in da tower." Spot's 'tower' was a little platform sitting on top of the wooden boathouse on the dock, where he usually talked with his boys and decided things. He had called his gang there to determine whether he'd fight in the strike or not.

About fifteen minutes of waiting, Spot entered. The house was big enough to hold about ten people at most. He reached into a little box and pulled out some beers and passed them to everyone.

"Alright, which one of yous threw that rock?"

No one answered. Finally, Mush spoke up.

"We's all saw it, even you, Spot. None a us coulda thrown it."

"Ain't nobody should be gettin' in the way when we's soakin' the Delancey bruddas." He took a swing of beer.

Jack paused for a minute, thinking, hand on his chin. "Spot," he asked, "D'ya know if there are any otha gangs 'round here?"

Spot eyed him. "We got da Delanceys, some goons that come 'round from Coney Island 'cassionly (occasionally). But dat's it." He sat in silence, looking at Racetrack. "Race, you got a bruise on yer neck."

Race ran his fingers over the place where he had been kicked. Mush slapped his lag and started laughing. "Wanna bet that ain't from da Delancey bruddas? Dat's prolly a sore he don't have a problem gettin'."

Jack cracked up, face red, and Spot was trying to stifle a laugh, his hand over his mouth and eyes shut closed. Race wasn't looking too happy, and he pulled a soggy cigar from his pocket. Jack threw him a working lighter.

"Oh, yeah," Race said, voice dripping and oozing with sarcasm, cigar through his teeth, "Couldn't have gotten it any otha way. A' course." A pause, and he stepped on the thing. "Least I can get goils." He rolled his eyes.

Mush snorted. "Liar," he laughed, "When's da last time ya brought back a goil to da lodgin' house? Five months, at least?"

Racetrack stared at him. "I ain't neva seen ya bring back anyone!" And, as an afterthought, added, "And I brought back goils, just da same one evwy time! Ya remember Madeline, dontcha Spot?"

Spot nodded, but was waiting until they quieted down. Yelling wasn't his thing.

Mush shook with laughter, and Race turned a deep scarlet.

After a few minutes, when all was done, it was time to resume their talk.

Spot leaned closer, leaning on his cane. "Anyways, as I was sayin, it was prolly onna (one of) da Delancey bruddas tryna hit Race but missed 'cause dey can't aim if dey had a gun that aimed faw 'em."

Jack shrugged. "Coulda just been a passaby (passerby), ya know, seein' the fight was gettin serious an' all..."

Mush blew the whole thing off. "What happened is what happened. No point in astin' (asking) who did wha if they ain't here now. We gots ta worry 'bout if da Delancey bruddas are gonna come back with deir (their) boydies and soak us. Ya know dey want ta. I'd want ta if I was dem."

Spot nodded and stood up, which made everyone else stand up and come to attention. "If you 'hattenins try an' walk back ta da city, you'll be jumped. As King o' Brooklyn, I'm lettin' ya stay in my lodgin' house."

He smirked, content. "But if ya ovastay (overstay) yer visit, I'm gonna hafta _personally_ remove ya." He emphasized every syllable of personally clearly, as though it would result in punishment, and it probably would.

Kelly pulled off his cowboy hat and made a mock bow. "As you wish, yer honor."


	4. The Brooklyn Lodge

Chapta Four

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Disclaimer: No, I still don't own Newsies.

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The Brooklyn newsies' house was... well, no one really knew what it was. The only word that could describe it was _wow_. 

It wasn't big news that the Manhattan newsies' lodge was cleaner - they had smaller children living with them and the manager was really old - both good reasons to make an _attempt_ to keep it vermin-free and to keep sickness at bay. But the Brooklyn lodge's owner was about forty-something and was drunk 99 percent of the time, so it didn't matter.

"Hey, Spots," he called, as soon as the band marched in. Spot ignored him and kept walking, up a flight of stairs until they reached the bedrooms. Race only got a glance, but the bed sheets were everywhere, there was an odor, and a rat ran across the floor. He gulped down his lunch of oysters with coleslaw, which was coming up.

"Uh, Conlon?" he asked, deciding how to say he didn't want to sleep here. Spot turned around. "We ain't sleepin' here, is we?"

Spot gave him a dark look, and for a minute, it looked like he was offended. But then he smirked. "Even I don't like sleepin' here. Naw, we's got a room faw da staff who neva were."

He climbed another flight of stairs and opened a door, revealing a room with four beds,sheets slightly wrinkledand awaiting their use in vain. A thin layer of dust was beginning to settle on them.

"Be shure ta shake out da sheets, ya don't know who last used 'em, or faw what," he said, and went to close the door.

"Ya said ain't nobody been usin' dis room," protested Mush, sounding whiney. Spot gave a funny grin and opened the door a crack. "Did I say dat?"

"Yeah..."

"Well, it get's its use sometimes..." Spot smiled wickedly, showing all his white teeth, "But nobody eva stayed here faw more den a night. So sleep well."

The door swung shut with a clap, and the three boys sat, staring at each other. They listened to Spot proceeding down the hallway and the stairs, the thump of his feet and the clonk of the walking stick on carpet. Faintly, they heard, "Ay, Joe."

"Ay, Spot."

"Ya know, you an' Trish can't sleep in da staff room tanight. I have guests."

"Really. Where dey from?"

"My guests o' honor, da 'hatten Newsies."

"Is dat so... Well, whateva ya say, sir."

"An' don't ya forget it."

Mush, Race and Jack stared. Race picked a pillow off of a bed and threw it on the floor. "I ain't sleepin' on those," he said, and then decided to make his rest a bit more comfortable. He ripped the sheets off and pulled the mattress onto the floor with him. Mush popped onto the mattress with him, and Jack, 'seizing the night,' shoved Mush's bed and his bed together, making it king-sized. Mush jumped up with a cry, but Race tapped him.

"You wanna sleep here, ya gonna be quiet," he muttered.

And that was how it was.

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Spot awoke with a start. With a small grunt, his eyes snapped opened. He looked at the clock on the wall above him, broken, then checked his watch. 3:45. Something must've scared him awake... but what? 

The room was dark and echoed softly with the sound of sleeping boys breathing. Night fear gripped at his chest, something that had always been his flaw. Although he'd bet Race a million that no one was in the room aside from the newsies, he was facing the wall and didn't dare turn around.

But there was thing that worried him, yes, _worried_ Spot. Newsies pretty much had ultimate freedom from the job, so the lodging house door was never closed. Most all the guys would be back at three, at most, and sometimes to four on Sundays, but it was open to anyone. Anyone could get in and attack him while he was sleeping, if they desired, and he wouldn't be able to do anything.

Darkness surrounded him, and his other senses were at their peak. His hearing, especially. Anything out of the ordinary sent him into a panic. And still, he would not turn over.

The breathing of his comrades around him eased him a bit. It was relaxed, and they were all probably dreaming about their girlfriends in Harlem or winning a hundred dollars or other luxuries they'd never have. Spot calmed himself, trying to match his breathing with Zippy, who slept on the bunk on top of him.

_Creak._

His eyes snapped open again, a knot of fear and panic tying itself up in his chest. He could imagine one of the Delancey brothers standing over him, holding that same rusty knife that had almost killed Racetrack, ready to plunge it into his chest... And his hand gently ran over his walking stick, which he kept besides him 24/7.

'Relax yaself, Brooklyn,' he thought, 'Old dumps like this tend ta creak 'cause they're so old. It ain't nuttin' else.'

If he died tonight, he'd die with no regrets - his friends would be safe, hidden away in the staff room only Brooklyn knew about, and his fellow newsies would avenge him... wouldn't they?

There was no more noises, so, after a lot of self-pep-talk, the Irish / Italian / Romanian mix mustered up the strength to grab his walking stick and spin around, facing the darkness.

Nothing was there.


	5. Doing Things Spot's Way

Chapta Five

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Disclaimer: Don't own it.

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The Manhattan newsies woke to a rather... interesting... surprise.

Since the Brooklinians had to get up at 6:30, of course the Manhattanins had to, too. Because anyone who stayed had to pay it off in their share of work, and they were _obligated_ to get up and sell papes, otherwise Spot'd have their heads on silver platters.

The King o' Brooklyn was pulling on his suspenders over one of his work shirts, plaid with brown and yellow and all that good stuff about fifteen minutes after he woke up. "Joe, Zippy, Glasses," he ordered to his roommates,"Go get 'em."

So, with a great joyous leap and some Indian war whoops, four or five Brooklyn newsies pounded down the door to the staff room and stomped in stark naked.

Of course, no one had expected Racetrack and Mush would be sleeping on the floor, so one newsie was flat on his ass in two seconds.

Race sat up drowsily and wiped his eyes. "What the... My god."

His eyes widened as he saw two Brooklyn newsies naked, dancing on the bed and laughing, and one lying next to him, biting his lip from stubbing his toe. Poor Jack was huddled in the corner, pressed flat up against the wall in horror. After all, they were on _his_ bed.

Mush found the whole thing hysterical and doubled over laughing. "Better than coffee anytime, eh?" he asked, tears streaming down his face. Race, who sat next to him, stared at him in disbelief, and it crossed his mind Mush just might be insane.He kicked the sheets off his legs and scrambled to get up.

"The Brooklyn Newsie Wake-Up Call!" cried one of the newsies jumping on the bed, prancing around like no one's business.

"Directly from Spot ta his fine guests. He wants ta see ya outside," another one said, laughing. "Consider yaselves lucky. This don't happen ta everyone."

Racetrack rolled his eyes and popped in another cigar. "I hope not."

After the morning amusement, the boys retreated down the long flight of stairs to the streets below, where Spot was leaning against a barrel, smiling.

"'Ave a nice sleep, chums?"

Mush smirked. "'Twas excellint, yer honor. 'Specially liked yer wake up call."

"Ya don't get dat everyday." He looked at Race, smoking, and asked, "Ya got anudda onna dose?" pointing to the cigar.

Racetrack frowned an shook his head. "My last," he said, "but I can getcha one by lunch."

Spot nodded. "Ya ready ta sell papes da Brooklyn way?"

Cowboy shrugged, making everyone pause. "Well, dat depends, Spot," he said, calmly, "If it's anything like da wake up, dese boys here might not be able ta handle it." He wrapped his arms around Mush and Race jokingly, and Race made a sad face that would make a cinder block cry. Spot snorted.

"Close, but no cigar," he said, "And, ya betta keep yer promise," he added, pointing at Race, reminding him. Race nodded again. He was good at stealing cigars from the rich men in the boxes at the racetrack, he'd bump into them and make them drop a pen or something and then grab it and run. Something along those lines. A sudden sting made him bend over and roll up his pant leg, tosee the cut from the day before. Bright red and puffy, the cloth was irratating it. He rolled the pants back down and tried to ignore it. Nothing he could do now.

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'_Is everything crappy in Brooklyn?'_ Mush wondered, as they neared the paper distribution center, where there was already a line the size of Texas. Rotting fruit lay all over the ground, and memories filled each of their heads from the day when Crutchy had been arrested. Rotten fruit being flung about. Ahh, those were the days...

The walls were covered in dried egg and the paint was chipped and cracked and peeled. Rats scurried bout, collecting anything they could find, and somewhere they were probably having a feast. The smell of low tide burned at the group's noses, and a fog from the bay hung thickly in the air like a cloud.

Jack got in line, but not after Spot pushed his way to the front, just because he could do that. No one bothered to say anything against him, but actually greeted him, which wasn't that big of a deal to Spot, but to Mush, it was amazing. Remarks flew from the newsies like sparks from flint.

"Ay, Spot."

"How ya doin', Spotty?"

"Look who it is..."

'Spot!"

"I'll be damned, if ain't da king."

"Yeah Brooklyn!"

Spot turned around. "Yeah Brooklyn!" he responded, causing a cheer of 'Yeah Brooklyn!"'s from the crowd. He turned around again to face the manager of the paper distribution and slapped down some quarters.

"100," he demanded nonchalantly. The crowd cheered again, but not before Racetrack felt a rough hand on his shoulder and was spun around to see a face sneering at him.

"Spot, who's dis?" he asked. Spot looked over his shoulder, waiting for his papes.

"Dat," he said casually, pulling Race away from the ugly newsie, "Is my guest from 'hatten, Racetrack. An' if ya know what's good fer ya, ya should treat 'im with respect, him an' all da otha ones." He motioned to Jack and Mush.

"Dey're from 'hatten, dey're trash."

The whole crowd stopped. No one moved. Jack's fist clenched. And Mush sounded grave as he said, "Trash, eh? We's don't seem ta be swimmin' in "

Spot put his hand over his mouth and said, 'Dontcha say anythin'. Only someone from Brooklyn can 'sult someone from Brooklyn. Ya say one word and dese boys will be all over ya."

He stepped foward. "Seems like you don't got respect faw my friends here, Curly," he said, matching him eye to eye, although Spot was shorter. "That's sayin' somethin' ta me. That's sayin' ya don't have respect faw _me_."

There was another deadly silence. "Ya know what dat means?" Spot whispered, hand resting on the walking stick. His thumb traced over scratches he had made on it.

Curlylooked at Spot, with something between fear, anger and hatred. You simply cannot go against the King of Brooklyn when he and his little army are standing right there and ready to fight. A death sentence. So he did the only thing he could do, and tipped his hat.

"Yer guests are my guests."

"Back o' da line, Curly."

Brace bit his tongue as he walked to the back of the line, humiliated. 'But it wouldn't last long,' he told himself, trying to ignore the snickering and the funny looks from Spot's minions. No one embarrassed him like that. Not even someone who was allowed to.

He knew Spot had a night fear, or once did. He was three years older and Spot was just a child when he had come in, only about eight or nine. He could remember having to keep the light on for the stupid kid under bunk two because he couldn't sleep on his own. He wasn't sure if he had grown out of that fear or not, but it was worth giving it a shot. He knew that Spot had just had a mini-rumble with the critics and the Delancey brothers and won.

And he knew that the door was never locked.


	6. Meeting the Girls

Chapta Six

* * *

Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies, but I do own my OC's. Duh. Notice the 'O' in 'OC,' which stands for OWN Character. O yeah. (Worst joke I've ever made.) :P

* * *

:Somewhere in the Bronx:

* * *

The shadowy figure of a woman moved gracefully around the dark streets, a cool wind blowing her hair gently behind her shoulders. She knew it was dangerous to be alone on an autumn evening, but where she was going, nothing would get her. 

A small shop sat, it's windows softly illuminated by candlelight. The shop part of it wasn't open, but as a house, it was.

She tapped on the door a few times, before another young girl, no more than fifteen, opened the door. She greeted her friend with a smile.

"Come on," she said, motioning her inside. With no questions asked, the girl who had opened the door, a young lady named Andria Wells, commonly known as Ali, led her friend up a flight of stairs and into the attic, where five or six other teenagers sat.

"Natalie, hi! We thought you weren't coming back!"

The figure, whose name was Natalie O'Rourke, smiled. "Why wouldn't I?"

Ali pulled her aside, lowering her voice. "We were worried about you and that guy, whats-his-name... Pumming, or whatever you called him. No one thought you would still be with us."

Natalie shrugged, and raised her eyebrows. "Well, that's done with, and I'm still here, so it's all good. Did I tell you what happened a few days ago?"

Julia, another teen in the room, rolled her eyes. "No, you weren't _here_ a few days ago." Natalie smiled sheepishly.

"Hee hee."

"Just, continue."

"Ok, so I was in Brooklyn, the real trashy part, ya know, and I saw these gangs having a fight outside of the Sheepshead racetrack..."

"Really?" piped up one of the girls, "What was happening?'

"I don't know, but one of those guys was gettin' it really badly. Like, _really_ badly. They almost stabbed him."

Ali looked at her. "Did you do anything to stop it? Call the police or tell someone or something? You didn't let him get hurt, did ya?"

"No..."

"Then what did ya do?"

Natalie paused.

"I threw a rock."

* * *

It was growing late by the time the Manhattan newsies left Brooklyn. After a day of selling papes, drinking, throwing obnoxious comments at hobos, more drinking, and partying, it was time for sleep. Spot wasn't tired, this was his daily routine, but no one else had prepared for it. So, they were worn. All good things come to an end. 

He walked the streets, with the occasional spit into one of his friend's hands, and a wave or a nod here and there. More ways into the radioactive-beachy part of the bay, he could hear the echoes of the unfortunate newsies who, at 8:00 pm, were still trying to sell their papers. Nothing he could do.

After an hour of wandering around, he returned to the lodge, early. Much to his dismay, Curly was there. And the only one there. The two ignored each other for a bit, Curly fixing his bed, but

"Heya, Spot," he said, pretending to be happy.

Spot did not reply.

"So da King a' Brookie don't talk ta his servants?"

Spot glared at him. "Wha?"

"I said, da King a Brooklyn done (don't) talk ta his servants? Ya need my ta say it any louda?"

Spot began taking his suspenders. "Well, no, I try not ta talk ta dirt. It don't look so good in da long run."

Curly, with a scary suddeness, grabbed Spot by the collar of his shirt and glared at him. "Ya think yer so hot when ya wit yer friends, but ya ain't. Ya ain't nuttin' but a kid who think he's Teddy Roosevelt, struttin' round and wavin' yer stupid cane and makin' rules as ya go. Yer a piece a shit."

The two faced each other. Spot knew when it was time to be quiet and when it was time to talk, and this was a time to let the tension grow. Pushing past Curly, he kept his bright blue eyes on the floor and paced around. It could make anyone nervous, and he knew it.

"Ya know..."Spot started, clasping his hands behind his back like an expecting father, "Ya know, faw that, I can make ya lose everyone." He rose his head to stare at his opponent, unblinking. "Everyone ya ever known. Wit a snap, no one will talk ta ya again, an if dey do, ya won't be hearin' from dem again. I could do that."

"Is dat a threat?"

Spot smiled. "I'll be frank. Yeah, it is. An' ya better take my advice. We could put dis behind us. Neva happened. 'Cause we all got voices. But if ya don't step down, no one's eva gonna listen ta yers again."

"I don't like bein' threatened, Conlon."

"Nobody does. But ya betta listen, 'cause dis is da last time I'll be tellin' ya."

He got himself up in Curly's face in a second, only about two inches away.

"Give up. Ya just startin' ta get things in life, like friends an' respect, things ya need ta survive here. Ya don't wanna lose it. It'd be... unhealthy."

Curly turned away, knowing, he had only lost a battle. Going to leave the room, he looked over his shoulder and said, "Onna dese days, yer gonna get it. Yer gonna mess wit da wrong person and get it served ta ya."

"I'll believe dat when I seen it wit my own two eyes."

* * *

The Next Day

* * *

"Penny faw a pape, lady?" Racetrack called, waving the news about. When the woman did not respond and walked by faster, he asked, "...Ma'am?" 

He sighed. He wasn't in Manhattan, he was in the Bronx, and felt like an idiot. No one knew him or trusted him. Just another stupid 'hatten newsie trying to make a living. Let's not buy papers from him.

He didn't know why he had come here, but it probably had something to do with how overcrowded the city was, and although this was considered 'good,' word spread quickly if you were a liar or not. So what if some strange old dude had chased him away from his corner and threatened him with a cane because Race once stole his cigar? So what if he ran for about three miles before realizing he had gone south instead of east, towards Brooklyn?

Whoops.

Another man walked by, ignoring him, and he wondered, 'What am I doin' wrong?'

"Ali!" cried a voice, and he looked over to see a teenage girl running away from her friend, out of breath and trying to laugh.

"Just - Ali! Stop run– Can you just listen?"

Her friend caught up to her and took deep gulps of air, while Ali found something rather hysterical and was doubled over, face red. Her friend, a brown haired, cream skinned girl of about fourteen, tried to contain her laughter.

I... I didn't say..." More laughter. "I didn't say that. It wasn't–"

"No! I know you did–"

"No I didn't! It wasn't me!"

"Only you would do something..."

"No no no no no, that was Julia or Lizzie but that wasn't..."

As he listened to the girls argue over something embarrassing that someone had said, Racetrack realized it may be his accent. The girl's words were pronounced and didn't have a slur. Without knowing it, he muttered, "That was Julia or Lizzie, but that wasn't me," to himself. It sounded more like, "Dat was Julya aw Lizzie, but dat wasn't me."

Regaining his alertness, he fixed his cap and went up to them. Their chatter died down to nothing, and they stared.

"Would ya lovely angels like ta buy a pape? Only a penny."

They looked at him, eyebrows raised, then at each other. The one called Ali had straight, brownish-blonde hair that went to her shoulders, and pretty grey eyes. It was she that spoke first.

"Sure, here." She flipped him a penny and took a newspaper from the pile. He nodded at her and went to walk away, but it appeared that wasn't the custom in the Bronx.

"Wait," she called, and he looked back.

"Yeah?"

"Are you from Brooklyn?"

"No, 'hatten. Why?"

"Your accent."

"Oh."

The friend stepped foward and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "I know you." Race looked at her. "I neva seen ya," he said.

Ali gave her friend a glance, then said, "I'm Ali Wells, and this is Natalie O'Rourke."

Racetrack gave a little bow. "Racetrack. Pleased ta meet ya."

Natalie smiled. "I could swear I know you from somewhere. That, or I've seen you."

Race shrugged. "I ain't usually ova here. I stay in 'hatten an' sell papes, but some guy ran me out. So I'm here faw taday." Ali laughed.

"What, he sold you out of business?"

"Nah, I stole his cigar."

The girls chuckled. Natalie could swear on the Bible she'd seen him somewhere, whether she'd given him a piece of bread or seen him in a crowd, but definitely somewhere. Ali liked him. His forehead looked cute when he was bothered or confused, both of which she had seen in the past five minutes. But it wasn't right for her to just start talking to a boy she met on the street, literally. So she nodded.

"Well, it's been nice talking to you," she said, which meant it was time to end it. "Are you going to be here tomorrow?"

Race paused. He hadn't thought about it, but now... "Change o' plans. Maybe I outta give da guy some time ta cool down." he laughed. "Yeah, I'll be back."

Ali cupped her hands together. "Ok," she said, "Be back here tomorrow. I live on 67River Court, down there." She pointed, and he looked carefully, wanting to remember.

They waved, and went off on their ways.

Race was whistling a new tune when he reached home.


	7. In the Night

Chapta Seven

* * *

Disclaimer: I don't own nuttin' cept faw Natalie O'Rourke and Ali Wells.

* * *

A/N: It's starting to come together, from here on out, but that doesn't mean it's about to end! Yay seventh chapter! This one is really long.

* * *

Darkness had fallen on Brooklyn. 

Spot tried something new tonight - sleeping facing the room instead of the wall. Squinting, he could see the white sheets turning as someone rolled over, or whispering, and occasionally a scrap of paper would flutter down to the floor - someone had dropped a note they were passing. Haha.

But, eventually, the noises of the awake came to a stop, and only sleep filled the room. Except for Spot. After a while, his eyes were able to make out almost everything. Maybe he would get over this stupid night fear he had...

But instinct mixed with habit forced him to roll over and face the wall again, although he wasn't afraid. Listening to the creaky boiler turning on downstairs... The boiler. He hadn't realized it, but it had been getting colder and colder lately. Winter was coming on fast, so tomorrow, he'd take out his heavy clothing.

Completely relaxed, he closed his eyes slowly, and it seemed like he blinked - when he opened his eyes again, his watch read 2:48 am.

Anyone watching him may have thought it was the same thing he had done last time - woke up because something scared him in his sleep.

But tonight was different. The window, which sat a few inches above where his head lay, had been closed - and now it was open.

'Dat's what I woke up faw,' he thought, 'It's freezin' out.' More asleep than awake, he wasn't seeing the reality of the situation. Leaning over, he closed the window with a loud _thwap!_

But, suddenly, a weird, empty feeling came into his head. It was a feeling where you say to yourself, "Everything is fine,"and then disaster strikes. The kind of emptiness where you know something is wrong, but don't notice until it happens.

_Creak._

Spot froze.

It didn't sound like the lodge this time.

_Creeeeak._

Spot didn't feel the hand that wrapped itself around his neck until he had been pulled out of his bunk.

In those twenty seconds, his life changed forever.

Another rough hand covered his mouth, stopping the terrified yell he almost let out. Other hands were pulling him out of his bunk, and one was around his neck. He managed to grab his walking stick, and thank god, 'cause he'd need it.

He didn't need to see kidnappers to know they were parts of the Crib and Delancey brothers.

And Curly.

Spot was thrown onto the floor as quietly as you could throw someone, and abruptly pulled up and shoved out the door. Unfortunately, all of the Brooklyn newsies were heavy sleepers, and did not stir, let alone rise and try to help.

After going downstairs and out the door, there was no need to be quiet anymore. Spot was shoved on the ground, and kicked, but he popped back up.

He was surrounded, and in front of him stood Curly.

"Only a few hours ago, dis boy says he's gonna make everyone hate me an' neva talk ta me again. Now what will dey say when dey see deir leader dead as a doornail?" he asked, and the bunch of sadists laughed, but they were wasting time.

Spot tapped his cane on the ground - no one was going to jump in and save him. He swung the stick around, making everyone back up a little.

"Everyone, back off," he warned, then turned to Curly. "You an' me, we'll do this like men - one on one."

Curly shrugged. "Fine. If ya lose, all my buddies here get ta do whateva dey want ta ya."

"Fine. An' if _you_ lose, you an' all this scum has ta leave Brooklyn permanently."

No one said anything, before Curly stepped foward and reached into his pocket, and pulled out a chain.

Spot was in a bad position. He had nowhere to move and could barely dodge a rock being thrown. But Curly put a stop to that, yelling, "He's mine, an' no one's gonna beat him but me." As he said that, Spot tried to punch him in the stomach, but the chain lashed out and he had to jump back. The only thing he could do was to keep charging at his opponent, but it was no use.

He leaned on his walking stick to take a breath, and thought, 'I need ta cut back on dose cigars.' Getting himself up, he received a punch to the jaw, but in the nick of time, jabbed the stick into Curly's side. Curly had the wind knocked out of him, and in blind rage, threw the chain.

Spot saw it coming, but couldn't do anything. He knew it would break his ribs and back and whatever else was in there, so he made one last attempt to save himself - he ducked. But chains did not fly in straight line, and the end of it hit him in the head.

However, he made it out well. For the idiots who had been standing behind him were hit, and knocked down. Six of them were on the ground in six seconds, and at this point, no one cared if they were dead or alive.

There was a gaping hole in the circle of the Crib, but was quickly, but thinly, filled. Spot knew he could probably break out of it is he wanted to, but he was lying on the ground, his head feeling like it was splitting, and a small trickle of blood coming from a cut in his hair somewhere.

'There ain't no way ta get out,' he though, and a warm, fuzzy feeling eased him. He knew he was about to pass out, but he was Spot, and he couldn't. He... couldn't... He wouldn't, if there was anything he could about it. He sat up, and Curly, who had recovered, was walking over to him.

'Ya call yaself da King? Ya can't even fight fer ten minutes," he mocked.

But that was his mistake, because NO ONE mocked Spot's position. Absolutely not. Never in a million years. That was his one sliver of pride that, no matter what happened, would not be taken from him. He had worked harder than anyone had ever worked to make that title for himself, and it would remain.

And now, Curly was going to pay.

Clearing his head, he stamped out on Curly's right foot, causing him to jump. While he jumped, Spot whipped his other leg out from under him, and elbowed him in the stomach. The brute was the one on the floor now.

Spot had a scary look in his eyes. It was that of murder, and built up anger, and he was going to unleash it. For years, he had been teased and picked on by this boy, who lay before him now. Time for revenge.

There were so many bloody, horrible things he could think of to do, but armed with on a walking stick, the choices were limited.

There was a whistling in the distance.

"Crap, it's da Bulls!" shouted the onlookers, and quickly split up, each running in their own directions, before no one was left. But Spot did not move, and neither did Curly.

Curly smiled up at him. "Whattaya gonna do?" he asked, smartly.

Spot did the only thing he could do - held his cane so the metal end was facing his enemy. He raised it, and smashed it down on Curly's face, hitting him from side to side. Probably breaking his nose. Payback for the chain, and he seemed to be unconscious, as Spot himself had almost been.

The Bull's whistle grew louder, and he turned and ran.

* * *

Ali felt sick. 

It was the middle of the night, and she had a huge fever. Her parents sat by her side, her father anxiously waiting for the doctor and her mother holding her hand. There was a knock on the door.

"I'll get it," her father said, rushing from the room. Thinking it was the doctor, he opened the door. Instead, standing there was a short boy, maybe fifteen or sixteen, with a dirty grey hat on his head and old clothes.

"Hey there, mista," he said courteously, taking off the cap, " My name's Anthony. I know it's really late, but is yer daughta Ali here?" He had a Brooklyn accent.

"You mean Andria?" Her parents never called her by her nickname.

"Yeah."

Her father, who was named William, was taken aback by the kid, but couldn't say no. "Uh, uh, umm, yes. She's right upstairs -but," he said, stopping Anthony from walking in, "But, she's really sick. Keep your distance."

Racetrack nodded. "Thank ya, mista."

So, Racetrack was back in the Bronx. He had returned home earlier, but nothing interesting had been happening. As he lay in his bunk in the nice, clean Manhattan lodge, all his thoughts were of Ali. So, at one in the morning, he got up quietly and started on his journey.

Of course, being who he was, he got sidetracked - he stopped at a few pubs and a bar along the way. So what if he forgot about the time? After an angry bartender dumped some cold water on his head, he remembered what he had set out to do - see Ali. And so he would.

Ali's house was... nice. It smelled of cinnamon and potpourri. A small fireplace sat in the corner, with two logs burning. The house was warm and cozy, and would probably make a great place to stay in the cold of winter... If they were still friends by then.

As he went up the stairs, her mother, Victoria, came down, and stopped, staring at the strange boy who was in their house.

"William," she asked, "Who is that?"

"One of Andria's friends. I suggest you go up and listen in - make sure nothing happens."

Upstairs, there was a knock on the door. "Come in," called Ali, and Racetrack entered the room, smiling. "Racetrack!" she cried, in surprise and delight, then realized she had to keep her voice down.

"Ali," he said, relieved, "Why you sick?"

"How should I know?"

"I didn't make ya sick, did I?" Street rats like him were more immune to viruses and bugs than someone like her who was always sheltered.

"Nah, I was running around without a scarf of a jacket before. That's most likely why. But I might have the flu."

Racetrack gulped. The flu was... bad. As far as he knew, there wasn't a cure for it yet (Note: In 1899, the flu was a deadly virus, and there was no vaccine yet). But he tried to hide his worry and grinned. "Ya used ta gettin' vis'ters (visitors) at three in da mornin'?"

Ali shook her head and coughed. "Now I've seen everything," she laughed. They watched each other for a few minutes in silence.

"So, why'd you come here?" she asked.

"Ya said ta come back da next day, an' accowdin' (according) ta my wondaful (wonderful) educatin (education), the day starts at twelve. So I'm here now."

They sat in another moment of silence, before Ali said, 'Do you newsies consider yourselves a gang?"

"A... gang?"

"Yeah."

"Kinda. We got leadas an' territories an' all that."

"So you do have a gang," she said. (Note: Back in the day, having a 'gang' didn't always mean a bad thing. To have a gang of friends, which is what they are talking about now, was good and most of the time, legal. However, to have a gang today is looked down upon.) "Don't tell anyone else this, but I have one too."

Race stared at her. A girl in a gang? Was that even possible?

"Wha?" he asked. Ali grinned.

"Well, we have a _union_, as you put it. Me and Natalie and some other girls. In all, about seventeen members."

"What's it faw?" Race asked, and Ali gave him a funny look.

"What does that mean?"

"Evwy union has ta have a cause."

"Does yours?'

Racetrack shrugged. "It did but... Well, dat ain't the same thing. We was a union, but now we is just a gang, I think."

"Okay," she concluded," so there is no reason for yours, and ours. But we have one, and I thought I should tell you. I just have a feeling you should know."

Race took note that her pretty brown hair was scattered all over, and a piece of it hung in her face, and she may have not been bothered, but it annoyed him. So, delicately reaching out, he brushed the piece out of her eyes and tucked it behind her ear.

Ali smiled, and opened her mouth to say something, but before anyone could say anything else, footsteps were heard at the door, and the doctor walked in. Race quickly pulled his hand away and stood up.

Looking something like Pulitzer with his big bushy beard and brown hair, he strutted in and put down his briefcase, filled with lots of medicines. At his heels came Victoria and William, looking worried. Racetrack knew they were paying a lot for him to come, but sometimes the doctors wouldn't charge. He moved aside.

After twenty minutes of poking probing, temp-taking, and a bazillion other things, the doctor stood up. He went over to her parents and said something, before nodding. Her parents sighed. She'd be alright.

William turned to Race. 'I think it's time you go," he said, but not angrily. "Dad," Ali called in protest, but Race nodded. "Yes, sir."

He went over to Ali and gave her a small hug, the sweet scent of her hair surrounding him, and before he pulled away, she whispered into his ear, "I'll see you soon."


	8. Natalie O'Rourke

Chapta Eight

* * *

Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies.

* * *

A/N: Now it starts getting good.

* * *

'_Brrrrrrrr,_'thought Race, as he stepped outside. The cold night air chilled him to the bone. _'I shoulda put on a jacket.'_

He trotted down the street, his footsteps bouncing off the houses and shops around him. Winter was almost here, and no one stayed out late anymore. The wind smelled of pine and smoke, and he knew someone had madea fire.

As he came nearer to Brooklyn, he was aware of a huffing noise, like someone was out of breath. Since, as said before, any noises were echoed, it was hard to tell where it was coming from. He spun around. No one.

Continuing his walking, he heard it again, a little more distinctly this time, and he heard the faint tatter of footsteps slapping the pavement. He stopped. A figure was in the distance, and it seemed to be running. The oh-too-familiar whistle of the Bulls started up, and he realized someone was being chased down.

But he had a lodge to get to. Wanting to avoid the oncoming crime scene, he began to turn south, a detour, when his leg began to sting. And, perhaps, by some freak coincidence, he stopped to check the wound. And that was it.

It only took ten seconds. He winced, stopped walking, bent over, rolled up his pant leg, muttered, "Jesus Christ...", rubbed the scab, and rolled his pant leg up, and stood straight. All in ten seconds. And, in two seconds, he glanced up to see, guess who, Spot, running for his life.

Spot stopped in front of him, trying to catch his breath, but the shrill whistle of the Bulls getting louder told them both there was no time for rest. Race didn't need to ask to know his friend was in danger.

Spot did a double take when he saw him, as if Race was something from heaven.

And perhaps he was, because the events that followed were Race's doing and changed Spot's life forever.

The first thing Race thought was that he had to hide his comrade, but that wouldn't be too smart unless they threw off the Bulls first. Spot grabbed Race by the sleeve and yanked him after him. The Bulls, armed with the advantage of horses, were nearing. The boys tore into the town, and then Race thought, _'I can take him to Andria's house.'_

But no, Ali was sick, and her house was right there. Anyone would see them go in, and he had a feeling her parents wouldn't be too happy with strange boys staying in their home for days.

And then, a tiny voice in his head spoke up and asked, _'What about Natalie's house?'_

Natalie's house. He knew it was somewhere around the corner, and they'd probably throw off the Bulls by getting there, but him and Natalie weren't half as close as he and Ali were.

_But it's Spot who's gonna stay there, not you._

So, without anymore hesitation, said, "Spot, my friend down here has a gangdatda Bulls don know about. You could lay low wit them."

Spot looked at him, and thought as he ran. Of course if he disappeared, the police would check all of the neighboring gangs and there'd be interrogations and all that good stuff. He nodded.

Surprisingly, the whistles were dying down. They pulled around a corner and found themselves on a quiet dead end. There were five houses.

With only minutes to spare, the Race began knocking.

"Hi, is Natalie there?"

The woman shook her head. So he ran around asking numerous houses.

"Natalie there?"

"Do you know a girl named Natalie?"

"Is there anyone named Natalie on this street?"

At this, they recieved an answer. A kind old man pointed to a house across the dead ens, and they ran to the door and knocked. A girl answered.

"Racetrack?' she asked warily, obviously tired. She was holding a candle. She gave him and Spot a funny look, but the whistle cut her out of it. Realizing they needed to hide, she let them in, shut the door quietly, and turned off the lights in the window.

She put down her candle and stared at her guests, who were trying to huff silently. Hands on her hips, she asked, "What do you think you're doing here!"

"What does it look like?" asked Spot, "Running." He grunted when Race elbowed him in the ribs.

But the household fell quiet as the whistling grew louder and louder, and a new fear dawned on the boys - _What if the neighbors told the Bulls that they had gone in here?_

Natalie made a sweeping hand motion, shooing them up the staircase. It was extremely narrow, and by sitting at the top you took up the whole thing. Race did exactly this. The hostess then positioned herself so that she lay on the couch with her candle next to her and a book in her hand. There was no evidence that anyone was here... except the fact that there was.

The dreaded knocking came a few minutes later, and with her candle and book, Natalie opened the door. A bulky police office, with a square chin and small eyes, tipped his hat.

"Good evening ma'am," he said politely.

Natalie smiled. "Good evening, officer. Is anything wrong?" To anyone listening, she was innocent, but her tone was completely fake to Race.

"Do you mind if I come in?" the officer asked. Natalie nodded.

While Race carefully peered down the stairs, Spot had shaken himself out and already began to adjust. He looked at his setting - he was in a wide, roomy attic, with sweet-smelling herbs dangling from the rafters. The floor was thickly lined with hay, and around the corners lay the family's stashes of food - corn, pumpkins, barley, wheat, beans - whatever could be planted and harvested. Taking a step towards a nice looking apple, not having eaten since dinner, Spot stepped on a creaky board, and froze.

Meanwhile, Natalie and the officer, who had been making small talk, both heard the creak and the rustle of hay and stopped. The officer, who was suspicious that the boys were indeed hiding in here, stood up, but Natalie sat him back down.

"Don't worry," she said, with a trueness in her voice, "That's only the cat. Would you like some tea?"

"No, thank you," said the officer, "But could you answer some questions for me?"

Race, who sat at the top of the stairs listening, turned his head and gave Spot a number of rude hand gestures and dirty looks. But Spot was more entertained by the glowing eyes he spotted in the corner. He picked up a piece of hay and threw it at them, and as if on cue, a cat ran out hissing and flew down the stairs. Race, who had his back turned, felt a hairy mass on his shoulders for a few seconds, before seeing a cat flying over his head, and boy, did he _jump_.

Amazingly, he landed without a sound.

But the officer, who had been about to go up the stairs, saw a grey cat shooting down, and he stopped. She hadn't been lying.

Natalie smiled and picked up the cat, who was spazing out. "You were saying?"

"I-I... I hope you don't mind, b-but I'd like to question you..."

"Well, go ahead."

The officer gulped. This house put him at unease. "We had a sixteen year old boy attack an eighteen year old boy, and now the eighteen year old is seriously injured. After escaping from the police, the delinquent was joined by a partner who was waiting for him around Stone Court, and now they are in this area. Several other residents said two boys, both short and Italian, visited their house asking for Natalie O'Rourke."

He forced a smile. "We have reason to suspect the boys are in this area, or possibly this household, you being the Natalie O'Rourke we are looking for."

Natalie paused. These boys had gotten themselves into some deep poo.

"Well," she said thoughtfully, "Yes, they did visit me about twenty minutes ago, but if you think they'd stick around, you're pretty wrong, and wasting a lot of time."

"What?"

"Those boys are my friends, and good people at heart, but criminals. Look outside. You see that picket fence? It's to the left," she said, pointing out the dark window. "They owed me a bit of money, so they came in, gave me the change, and left."

"What does that have to do with a picket fence?"

"They jumped it, then ran through the creek as you were coming. Up until now, I didn't know they were in trouble - I'm used to them stopping by and going when they please."

"Do you have the money they gave you?"

Race and Spot both froze.

Luckily, Natalie nodded, and they prayed she wasn't lying. "Yes, hold on, it's on the kitchen table. Let me get it." She left the room, and the officer stood, smelling the sweet herbs and vanilla sugar.

Natalie returned with three quarters - and _no one_ had any idea where she got that much.

"I hate to poke around," said the Bull, "But why and for what did they owe you?"

Natalie smiled. "I made a few bets with them at the track;" she smiled to herself, "And they lost."

The room fell silent, until the cat let out a yawn. The officer nodded. "And one more," he said.

"Go ahead."

"Do you know where they went?"

Natalie nodded. "Harlem."

"Harlem?"

"That's right."

"Why there?"

"They have a gang who's allies with them. They'll be staying there until this settles down."

"If they're you're friends, why are you telling me this?"

Natalie stared at him, before answering, "Because Lord knows you probably won't be able to catch them now, now that we've wasted so much time instead of searching. And that was three more questions, not one."

Another pause, and the officer opened the door ands tipped his hat. "Thank you for your time, milady."

"My pleasure."

The door slammed closed, and no one said anything until they heard the horses' hooves go clattering away. Race and Spot came down the steps, and Natalie sighed, plopping herself down on her sofa and rubbing her head.

"Ya didn't tell me da poison who was hidin' me was a goil," Spot muttered.

Natalie did not look up. "You two owe me big time."

"Well," stuck up Racetrack, "Who's gonna 'spect someone like dis ta be hidin' us? She got brains."

"Both of you can't stay here," Natalie said, rubbing her temples like she had a headache, and she probably did.

"Why not?"

"Because I have a family that uses the attic a lotand if they go up and find two boys up there, what'll they think?"

"What'll dey think if dey find one boy up dere?"

"Well, one boy I can explain, and they'd probably be allowed to stay. But two is trouble."

Race knew what they were getting at, but he had no problem. "Ya know, Nattie," he said, getting angry glances from her, "If I can stay here faw tonight and maybe tomorra, I can stay at Andri's house. But I just need some shelta now."

Natalie nodded. "Sure," she said, 'And don't call me that."

"Wha, Nattie?"

"Yeah."

"Why not?"

"Just don't, or you're out."

Spot said nothing. His reputation was dead and gone, as far as he knew. Hiding from the police with a girl. He'd rather turn himself in. But Race had done all this work and Natalie had given up her time to try and save his ass, and whether or not he liked it, he was staying here.

Besides, if he turned himself in, he could say goodbye to life as the King of Brooklyn forever. And this 'shacking up' thing would only be for a week or two.

So he would do it.

* * *

**Newsie Vocab!**

Poison - person. It they were talking about poison, as in the stuff that kills people, it'd sound more like '_poisin_.'


	9. Fever

Chapta Nine

* * *

Disclaimer: I don't own any part of Newsies.

* * *

A/N: Please R&R!

* * *

'Sleeping with someone else,'Spot thought, 'Feels way more safer.' 

This was his last conscious theory before he dozed off. He and Race lay in the attic, using mounds of hay as their pillows and a thick comforter Natalie had given them. She, of course, had slept in her room with her nice bed and down pillows and thick sheets and all that good stuff, but what could they expect?

"As soon as Race leaves," she said, "You can have the attic to yourself, Spot."

He still hadn't told her his real name, which was Sean Patrick Conlon, very Irish, but somehow, no one noticed. Hecould speak a tiny bit of Italian, thanks to Race's selling papes to the immigrants who came in, but he could never hold a conversation.

He loved Irish music, though. Once, when he was twelve, a group of artists came into the green and played some old tunes and sang in Gaelic. They stuck in his head, and he could recite them even to this day. That was one of the last good things in Brooklyn, and after that, no other musicians visited, period. But as a King, he was expected not to care, and that's what he did.

Even though he did.

"_Ta me chomh mor sin i ngra leat..._" he muttered to himself. He did not know what the words meant, but they were from the song.

He had a strange dream that night. In it, he saw a young girl, around his age or younger, laying there on her back, golden hair tossed around her shoulders on a pillow, tired.Peace filled his mind, either at the sight of the girl or for some other reason. Another picture came into his head, a more disturbing one - a tombstone, and, as he was about to read the name on it, it faded from his mind, and someone shook him awake.

"Spot...Wake up, ya big potata."

Spot groaned and rolled over. Race. He opened his eyes, but to his surprise, when he glanced at the window, it was still dark. Very dark.

"Whaddaya want?" he asked, angrily, glared up at his friend.

Race looked nervous. "Ya had me worried there, Spots. Ya were tossin' around an' ya were sayin' "No!"

Spot squinted. "I said wha?"

He jumped a bit, because he realized Natalie was peering over Race's shoulder. "Hey," she said gently, "You almost woke the whole house up. You started screaming."

Spot had forgotten his dream. Searching his brain and pulling himself up onto his elbow, he shook his head. "Can't rememba."

Natalie felt Spot's forehead. Her hand was soft and cool, and she looked surprised. "My god, you have a fever!"

Race scrambled away. "I was sleepin' in da same bed as ya!"

Spot rolled his eyes - he didn't feel sick. "Relax yaself, Race. Ya woulda been sick by now if ya got it."

Natalie tiptoed down the steps and returned a minute later with a wet rag and handed it to him. "Put that on."

Spot dabbed himself with it, then dropped the thing onto the hay and layed back down. "Wha time is it?" he asked. The rag, which had been cool, was now warm. He _did_ have a fever.

"Six. Ya might as well get up now, no point in sleepin' on yer bum," said Race, "Nattie–"

"Don't call me that."

"Oh, yeah, sorry, forgot. _Natalie_, do ya think Andria'd be 'wake now?"

"Probably. She's an early bird."

"Can ya do me a favor?"

"Sure, what?"

"Run ova ta her house an' ask her ta ask her folks if someone can stay wit dem faw a while."

Natalie nodded. "Sure," she agreed, 'But when the sun comes out. Do any of you want breakfast?"

Spot and Race both raised their hands.

* * *

After breakfast, Natalie told her parents about Spot. They were... more than nicely surprised, to say the least. 

"Mother, Father," she addressed them, "Can I ask you both to let me do a huge favor for a friend?"

Her mother, Molly, was washing dishes. "I don't see why you need to ask us if you can do a favor for your friends, honey," she said, busy, "It is a good favor, isn't it?"

"That depends."

Molly put the chinaware down and wiped some sweat off her forehead. "What is it?" Her father, John, sat at the table, reading the newspaper and drinking coffee.

"Do you remember how you always told me to help those who needed it?"

"Yes. Why?"

Natalie took a deep breath. "Can we let someone stay here for a few weeks?"

Her mother stared, and her father put down his coffee. "Who?" he asked.

"Someone I know."

"That's not good enough. Who are they?"

"...You don't know them."

"Do I know their parents?"

Natalie gulped. "I don't know if they have any family. That's why I want to take them in for a while."

"It isn't Andria, is it?" asked Molly. Natalie shook her head. "You know Ali has family, mum."

"A homeless person?' asked John.

All he got was a shrug.

"Who is she? I want a name!"

"It... isn't a she."

No one made a move, and quite abruptly,John picked up his coffee and paper again. "A boy? Absolutely not."

"But - Father, I—"

"No. We are not taking in a stray boy into this home."

"He can stay in the attic! Please, he's my friend, and he really–"

"Tell me, Natalie Catherine, how old is this boy?"

"Fourteen," she answered, and Spot, who had ben listening in, slapped himself on the forehead. He hadn't told her his age, either.

"Fourteen! Fourteen is not a boy, it is a man! Absolutely not! How do I know he isn't a secret crush!" asked her dad angrily. Molly went back to washing dishes, staying out of it.

"We don't have anything! He's just a friend in need, and I'm trying to help him out!"

"Fine, then," John said smartly, "You tell me his name and I'll let him stay. Go ahead."

Some how, he must've known she wouldn't know, because his voice was filled to the brim with confidence, and a bright grin lit up his face. He'd never let a strange stay in the same house as his daughter.

Natalie stopped short. She knew Spot stood in the other room, but if he whispered anything, her father would hear it.

"His name is..."

But, too late. Spot bent over and whispered, "Sean Conlon," quietly, and luckily, at that moment, her mother dropped a dish, so no one heard anything.

"His name is Sean Conlon."

John's face dropped like a stone in a pond, but he tried to conceal it, and turned back to his paper. There was a long, awkward pause, before he said, "Fine. Where would I find this boy?"

"Let me go search for him. I'll be right back."

She snuck away, quietly motioning for Spot to follow her footsteps. Race appeared by their side, and the three left the house without a word.

* * *

As soon as they were far enough from the humble abode, Natalie sighed. "I do so much for you guys. Race, Ali's feeling better, but her parents and her are all in a twitter over you staying. I don't see any problem with visiting, though." 

"Da Bulls ain't gonna be down here anymaw, are dey?" Race asked.

"No, they're in Harlem."

"So can we's walk 'round?"

"Are you going to Andria's?"

"Yeah."

Spot grinned and slapped Race on the back. "So ya goin' out wit her?"

Race smiled back and a look came into his eyes. "Naw, not yet," he said, and Spot slapped the end of his hat, "I'd like ta, but I dunno 'bout her."

Natalie smiled. She was used to hearing this kinda thing. "She's single," she offered. Spot laughed. "Gonna be out all night, Racy?"

Race rolled his eyes and pushed him away. "I ain't even asted her yet, stupid. Do ya think I should?"

Natalie nodded.

There was a silence, as Race looked at his friends. A wind picked up, and he did what he did best - looked at the odds of her saying yes.

About 1/1349958423545798. (I can't even say that number!)

But, stupidity and hormones took control and he nodded. "I won't ast her taday, but I'll be all 'Ya look nice.'"

"Why dontcha just do 'er? Ya don't 'ave ta ----"

"Spot!" cried Natalie, in horror. Spot laughed, then said loudly, "Dat's what I did."

Race chuckled, and Natalie rolled her eyes. "Great," she said, "That's what I need to know."

Spot tapped his cane on the ground. "I was kiddin'."

There was an awkward silence, as Spot and Natalie looked at each other. Race broke the quiet by loudly clearing his throat.

"So, I'll be goin' now," he informed.

And with the goodbyes from his friend, he headed towards Ali's house.

* * *

**Gaelic Translations:**

**Ta me chomh mor sin i ngra leat** - I love you so much


	10. Starting Anew

Chapta Ten

* * *

Disclaimer: Don't own it.

* * *

A/N: If I stop writing AN's, that's cause I want to get down to the story. So, yeah.

* * *

"Ah, Anthony. How nice of you to stop by." 

Racetrack hated Ali's father's voice. It made him feel like he was under a microscope, and it was dripping with, _'Why are **you** here?'_

But he smiled pleasantly. "Is Andria-"

"Yes, she is here. Please, step inside."

Race stepped in to the familiar home of his little crush. William closed the door behind his guest. "Take off those muddy shoes over there," he ordered. "Andria will be with you in a minute."

Race stepped out of his dirt-crustedleather shoes and sat patiently on the couch, looking around. It never ceased to amaze him, how someone could have so much while another so little. His thoughts were interrupted by Ali flying down the stairs.

"Ali!" he said, smiling.

"Racetrack!" she exclaimed, and they both jumped into each other's arms, before having an awkward moment and pulling apart. Race coughed, regaining his posture.

"So, ya feelin' betta?" he asked.

"Yeah, it was just a cold."

"I think Spot got hisself a cold. He had a feva a while ago."

"Oh, did he?" Ali asked, then whispered in his ear, "Where is he hiding?"

"Natalie's watchin' him," Race snickered, "Paw goil."

Ali laughed, then sat down. Race sat down after her. "What did yer folks say? About me stayin' here?"

Ali shrugged. "They said if you make a good impression on them at dinner, you can stay."

"I can eat dinna here?"

"Yep."

Race raised his eyebrows and asked, "Yer gonna let me, a doity street rat, eat dinna wit yer parents?"

Ali smiled, and it was a sweet, loving smile. "I trust you."

_I trust you._

No one had ever spoken those words to Race before. Of course, someone in the world probably trusted him, but no one had told him to his face. He felt his heart rise up a bit and smiled back, and he could swear Ali knew that, just by looking at him, she could tell how he felt.

Before he could say anything, she stood up and took his hand. "Let's go up to my room. There's nothing to do down here."

If Spot had been there, Race knew what he'd be saying - _"Try ta keep da moanin' on a low."_

But, without resistance, he allowed himself to be dragged to her room - which was in pretty good condition, if he might say so himself. It was wide, with a two person bed and a loveseat in the corner, and a dresser with a patch of thread and a needle on it. A pile of books lay next to the chair, and a nightlight sat loyally next to the bed. The walls were a bright, cheery yellow, and the floor was wood.

Ali plopped herself down on the bed and stared at her ceiling. "I'm tired,"she mumbled. Race went over and sat on the edge of the bed, looking out a window into the bustling streets below. Somewhere in Harlem, gangs were being harassed. He laughed.

"What's so funny?" Ali asked, looking over at him. He shook his head.

"Nuttin'."

"No, really?"

"Just thinkin' 'bout somethin' Natalie said."

"Oh."

There was a nice silence, both accepting each other's presence and being content with it. Race's heart told him to do something, be a little flirtsy and Italian, both something he was good at. He glanced at her, trying not to make it too obvious. She was laying there, daydreaming about something.

"Whatcha thinkin' about?"

"Race... I really want you to be able to stay."

"I want me ta stay, too."

"I mean, you won't have a home, aside from that lodge, and of course the police will check there..."

Race did not respond. He was thinking about Jack and Davey and Mush and Dutchy and Skittery and Boots and all his friends he had left behind, the whole newsie life he had left behind. They didn't know where he or Spot was, and they'd be worried. And Spot's crew would be upset, too. And some asshole might take Spot's place as king of Brooklyn, thinking he was gone... But he reminded himself that he was not on house arrest, and that he could visit them in a week or so.

"Racetrack?"

Ali's voice snapped him from his train of thought, and he looked to see she had sat up and was watching him carefully.

"Yeah?"

She leaned over very suddenly, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and hung like that for a few minutes. Race was taken aback, but it wasn't an unpleasant surprise, and he returned the hug and let his head rest on her shoulder. The two sat, and Race's heart seemed to be jumping with joy, but he said nothing.

Finally, Andria let go, and Racetrack could see she was trying to hide her face, which was deep scarlet.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, "I had to–"

"S'okay, I needed ta get dat out, too."

Still blushing furiously, Ali managed a weak smile, and Race realized that it was true - he _did_ have a crush on her, and it was a big one.

"It's just, I've been wanting to do that since the night you visited, but I couldn't and my parents were here, and... And, if you don't want to, you know, stay here, then I'll understand."

Race shook his head. "Nah. Yer a cool person, Ali. I wouldn't leave ya faw dat. In fact, I wouldn't leave ya unless ya kicked me out."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

Ali grinned, and before anyone said anything, her mother called down, "ANDRIAAAAAAAAA!"

"COMING!"

* * *

"Jack, we got a problem." 

Mush looked pale and deathly scared as he called Jack and Davey over. It was dinner time and the boys were just sitting down in Tibby's, where Mush had called them for a meeting. Boots accompanied them. "What's wrong?" asked Davey. Mush gulped. "Sit down."

Boots grew bored within five seconds and left, giving the others the room to sit. Mush looked around.

"We been talking to somma da newsie boys down in Brooklyn," he began, whispering, "And dey said Spot got pulled from his bed in da middle a da night."

Jack stared, and Davey gasped.

"What?" he cried, and Jack closed his eyes and tried to shake his head.

"No, dat can't happen."

"So he disappeared inta thin air," continued Mush, biting athis nail, "An' now we's got woid from Harlem. Dey said Spot got chased by da Bulls an' some goil told 'em dey were hidin' ova there, so alll da newsies in Harlem are bein' questioned."

"Dis fuckin' isn't happenin'," muttered Jack, rubbing his head in distress. Davey was listening intently, horrified.

"Yeah, dis fuckin' is. An' here's wat else - Afta da Brooklyn newsies saw dat Spot was gone, dey went outside ta see da Bulls, an' dey found a chain an' dere was blood splattad all ova da ground," Mush said, and a few drops of blood fell from his finger to the ground, where, in his anxiety, he had pulled his cuticle.

Crutchy hobbled over. "Did I hear wha I just thought I hoid?'

"Crutchy, be quiet."

"Shhh!"

"Anyways," said Mush, "Dey asted da Bulls what happened, an' da bulls say some guy call dem in da middle of da night, and dey came an' saw bout ten o' da Crib an' dat kid Spots hates, Curly, all layin' dere, an' dey saw a kid runnin' away. So now dey sayin' dat Spot didn't kill da kid, but his head got cracked when he got hit wit da chain. So now Curly's in faw it, but Curly might die from gettin' his fuckin' ugly face bashed in, so Spot's in danger."

Crutchy had an equally terrified look as Jack and Davey, and now a crowd was gathering around. "Are ya sayin' he's on da run?" he asked.

"Yeah, dat's ezactly what I'm sayin'. An' ta make it even betta," Mush announced, loudly, "Race is wit him."

"WHAT?"

"RACE?"

"RACE IS WIT SPOT?"

"SO DAT'S WHERE HE WAS DIS WHOLE TIME!"

"If ya bummers ain't noticed yet," Jack shouted, "Race has been gone faw three days! I thought he was in Brooky, but if he's on da run, he's wit Spot, and someone's hidin' dem both!"

"Are we gonna search faw him?"

Jack turned to Mush, who was looking uncomfortable. "_Are_ we gonna look faw him, Mushy?"

Mush shook his head. "From what I heard, da best thing ta do is ta keep on da low and search in small groups, if we don't want da attract attension. We know dey ain't hidin in, o' course, 'hatten, Brooklyn, aw Harlem, so it's either da Bronx, Coney Island, Staten Island, Long Islandor maybe even Queens. So we outta wait ta see if dey come back, an' den we'll start at da Bronx, since it's closest."

Davey shook his head again. "I can't believe what they've gotten themselves into..."

"It's scary, ain't it," said Blink, "Knowin' our friends are out dere and we don know if dere comin' back aw not."

Jack shook his head. "Naw," he convinced himself, "Dere gonna come back."

The group nodded, but they were all thinking the same thing -

_I hope._

* * *

**Newsie Vocabulary!**

Dere - Their, They're, There. (Use your context clues, people.)

Doity - Dirty

Feva - Fever

Hoid - Heard

Paw - Poor

Splattad - Splattered

Woid - Word


	11. Whistler and a Chicken

Chapta 'Leven

* * *

Disclaimer: Don't own it.

* * *

A/N: A long chapter, let's see if you can make it through! To Garen Maxwell, here's the character you asked me to put in!

* * *

Spot didn't like this town. 

As he walked around, weaving through the crowded streets, he decided right then and there, at the corner of 89th and 78th, next to Paula's Diner, that he didn't like this town. No one knew him or recognized him or even friggin' _looked_ at him, and it made him angry. When you have a life filled with attention, it becomes like a battery, and Spot's battery had just run out.

A man shoved past him, and Spot flipped him off. Pulling himself over to the side to escape the crowd, he leaned against a brick wall and pulled out the cigar he had been promised. As he closed his eyes and tried to picture Brooklyn and the good life, he heard a voice yelling to him.

"Hey, you who I think ya are?"

Spot looked up to see a red-headed newsie with a dirty green cap on, grinning at him with admiration. Spot knew him anywhere and smiled.

"Is dis Spot I see?" asked the newsie, pretending to feel faint. He smiled.

"Ay, Whistler," Spot greeted, and the two exchanged spittle before wiping it on their pants. Whistler took Spot by the shoulder and led him through the crowd, and this time, people _moved._

Whistler was the King of Queens, but spent most of his time in the Bronx,and, like every good King should, knew the Kings of other towns and boroughs and cities. Spot and Whistle had met before the strike and become good acquaintances.

"So, Spot, what ya doin' in da Bronx?"

"Hidin'."

"You? Hidin'? I ain't neva known Spot Conlon ta hide from an enemy."

"Well... Dey ain't really an enemy. I'm hidin' from da Bulls."

Whistler stopped and looked at him. "Whaddya do?"

"Beat da livin' shit outta Curly."

Whistler laughed, and Spot felt relieved. At least he wouldn't be frowned upon by his peers.

"Dat's it?" Whistle asked, and Spot laughed. "Yeah. Ya think I'd committed a moider aw sumthin'."

"Well, dem Bullses go afta everythin'. They don rememba how it feels ta be a newsie."

"Yeah, yeah."

They walked around town, filling each other in on everything they had missed. Spot told his whole story, of how Curly had attacked him and how he fought him off, and how Curly had thrown the chain and knocked the people out, not him. He told how he had ran all the way here and met up with Racetrack (Getting an "Oh, Racetrack - How's he been?" from Whistler) and how Race had hidden him with a girl named Natalie O'Rourke.

At this, Whistler looked curiously at him. "Natalie O'Rourke?"

"Yeah, what about her?"

"Yer a lucky guy," Whistler complimented, slapping his friend on the back. Spot stopped walking and stared at him.

"Whaddaya mean?"

"Natalie O'Rourke is onna danicest goils in dis town. An' she's single."

Spot started walking again, keeping his head down. He felt a little uncomfortable having his friend talk about the girl he was living with, kind of like if someone was talking about how much they wanted to date your sister when you were right there. He now knew what Race felt.

"Is she," he said, but it wasn't a question.

"Yeah, but I don think she wants ta go out wit anyone now, cause of dis guy who was here 'fore you came."

"Who was he?"

"Paul Pumming."

Spot racked his brain. "Nope, neva heard o' him."

"He was a real jockey type, ya know?"

"Kinda like Race?"

"Ezactly like Race."

* * *

Speaking of Race...

* * *

The Italian scurried to and fro, and the Wells abode was alive with the sound of clinking glasses, clattering plates, silverware being dropped down on the table, and there was the wonderful aroma of chicken and herbs cooking. 

Race, who had never set a table in his life, stood in the center of the kitchen awkwardly, holding a bunch of cloth napkins in one hand and forks in the other. Ali had given them to him, saying, "Here, put these out," and since his meals had always been eaten off his lap or served to him, he stood there like a tree amidst the chaos and did nothing.

"Racetrack!" cried Ali in annoyance, "What are you doing?"

"Nuthin'."

"I can see that. Didn't I tell you to put those out?" She pointed to the forks. Race held them out.

"I don know what ta do wit 'em."

Ali gaped. Never in her life had she met a person who could not set a table. She snatched the forks away from him, folded the napkins under them, and put them around the table. Race watched in curiosity.

Ali's mother stepped around him carrying the platter of chicken, making his motuh water and his stomach rumble.

"Anthony, dear," she asked kindly, "Would you be so good as to help me carve the chicken?"

If the poor boy couldn't even set a table, he'd have no hope with carving chicken. But Ali shot him a warning look and he smiled and nodded. "Uh, sure, ma'am."

Victoria put the chicken on the counter and Race stared at it. Had it been his only, there'd only be a pile of bones sitting there. It was plump and fresh and warm and the smell was delicious. So he picked up the knife and stuck the tip in. Steam billowed out, and the white meat was visible.

God, what he would give for that chicken.

And he knew that the faster he carved, the sooner he'd get some. So he finished the slice he had made, and a perfect little end piece was sitting right there, nicely cut and waiting to be eaten.

'_This ain't so hard_,' he thought to himself gaily, and just as he was getting in the mood of it, the knife hit something.

He stopped. He pushed again. The knife made a grating sound that sent shivers down his back. He pulled back the meat the reveal a bone, in which his knife was stuck on.

'_God dammit,_' he thought. He wouldn't let this ruin his mood.

"Hurry up with that chicken, Race," Ali reminded him, finishing up on the table and running to the stove to get the corn that was cooking.

" 'Be done in a minute."

Now he started to get annoyed. The chicken was mocking him, saying "Haha, you don't evevn know how to cut a chicken, so bite me," and it was going to pay.

With a little grunt and a push, Race put all his weight into the knife - and cut straight through the bone. Wiping a bead of sweat off his forehead, he rolled up his sleeves and looked at his masterpiece. To anyone but Race, it would've looked like a chicken that got stuck in a shredder, but to Race, well... It was the most beautiful chicken on the face of the Earth.

He smiled to himself.

There was more work to be done.

* * *

"Well, it's been good seein' ya," Whistler said, looking at Spot. He was ready to turn in for the night, or at least, retreat back to Tomcat Ally, where he and his posse hung out. Spot nodded. 

"See ya tomorra?" he asked, putting his Spot face on, stern and cold with the hint of a grin. It was his business face, the one he used when he was talking to people on his level. Anyone else usually got the cold shoulder.

"Yeah."

"Signin' off."

"Signin' off."

'Signin' off' was like the Bronxie's 'Carrying the Banner' - It was a little more for the boys like Spot and Whistler and Cowboy, the older ones, the leader's national anthem. Spot wondered if Natalie knew it. He'd have to ask her later.

Dragging his feet on the cobblestone, he walked slowly home, tapping on the door. Natalie's father opened it, and gave him a weird look.

"May I help you, sir?" he asked, eyeing the boy.

"I'm Sp— Sean Conlon," he said, "Natalie dere?"

"_You're_ Sean Conlon?" Her dad sounded upset.

"Yeah."

"Oh... Well, come in. She's in her room."

He opened the door wider, and Spot stepped in carelessly, not bothering to thank the man or take off his hat or shoes. He wasn't in the mood. Instead, he went upstairs and swung open the door. Natalie lay on her bed, reading. She looked up as he walked in.

"Oh, hi," she said, "I thought you'd be back later."

"I'm hungry."

"So I'm guessing you want me to make you food?"

"Yeah." He smirked.

"You live here now. Make your own."

"No."

"Well, then you aren't eating, I guess."

Spot was persistent. "Make me food." He wasn't angry, he was annoying - it was like feeding a baby bird. Natalie sighed and stood up, and Spot took her place on the bed. He looked at the cover of the book she was reading and dumped it on the floor. It landed with a _thump._

She'd let him get away with it, just this once. Since he was new and all.

He rest his head on the down pillows and looked at her with icy blue eyes.

"Food," he reminded her, pointing. She rolled her eyes.

"Okay, hold on."

Taking as long as she could to reach the bottom of the stairs, she shuffled her feet along into the kitchen. Reaching into the cupboard, she saw the only thing she had was a loaf of bread and some eggs. Her mother hadn't gone shopping in a while, so tomorrow she'd do it herself.

She took the bread and spread a bit of butter on it. She also, to her own dismay, took an egg, because she'd heard of people, boys especially, eating raw eggs. And who knew what Spot liked but Spot? So she brought it up with her.

Spot was laying on her bed, face down into the pillows, and perked his head up when she entered.

"Food?"

"Hold your horses, hold your horses." She balanced the egg on the end table and handed him the piece of bread, which was gone in a few seconds. Chomping noisily with his face covered in crumbs and his fingers with butter, Natalie eyed him. She found him cute, in a little kid kind of way... even though he wasn't a little kid. He was just a slob.

An adorable slob, no less.

Spot sat up and wiped his hands on his pants.

"What's that faw?" he asked, pointing at the egg. Natalie shrugged.

"I thought you might want it."

"A egg?"

"Yeah."

"Okay..."

"What, you've never eaten a raw egg before?"

"Naw, can't say I have."

"What kind of guy hasn't eaten an egg!"

"Dis kind."

"Oh, I see," she taunted, "You think you're so much better because you haven't eaten a raw egg before. I'll bet you Race has."

"An' I bet ya he ain't neva eatten sumthin' that nasty," he challenged.

"Okay, so you be the first guy to eat one. Let's see how tough you really are."

Spot hesitated. He looked at the egg, and realized that if he said no, he's sound like a wuss and she'd never let him live it down. He picked up the oval object, rubbing his thumb on it.

"Fine," he said, and tapped it on the side of the end table. The shell cracked and broke into pieces, and he held the egg over his mouth and pulled the two pieces apart. Thick, gooey egg white and yolk plopped into his open mouth, shell bits and all, and Spot swallowed, just to get rid of the horrible taste. Natalie laughed.

"That'll make your hair healthier," she said, going into the bathroom to get him a glass of water. Spot swallowed again, his face paling, trying to keep the wretched thing in his stomach, where it belonged, rather than on the floor.

Natalie returned. "Here." She handed him the water, which he drank vigorously, and then she spotted the eggshells all over the floor.

"Spot!" she cried, bending to scoop them into her hands.

"Wha?"

"You knocked over the eggshells!"

"Oh."

"And now you're standing on — Move your feet," she demanded, irritated. Spot, who had been trying to move out of the way, had stepped on them, causing them to break into little pieces with a _crunch._ He did more damage when he was trying not to.

Spot sat down on the bed again, looking at her. He gave an annoyed sigh as she swept.

Life here was so... ordinary.

Unbeknownst to him, over the next two weeks, things would be so _un_ordinary that the Spot then and now would seem like two different people.


	12. Rules of the Game

Chapta Twelve

* * *

Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies.

* * *

A/N: Hiya peeps! Remember to R&R!

* * *

The table was mahogany.

Race decided this as he sat in the Wells dining room, Ali on his right and Arthur, Ali's younger brother, on his left. Victoria and William sat at the ends., waiting for everyone to quiet down. Race had been arguing with himself over the wood the table was made of - it looked like cherrywood, smelled like pine, and was the color of blood. So it was mahogany. He guessed.

He was snapped from his reverie by the voice of Victoria.

"Anthony?"

Race shook himself. "Yes, ma'am?" he asked, in his most polite face.

"Would you care to say grace?"

Ah. This was one thing he knew how to do. Making the sign of the cross, he said some quick words. His mother had taught him to go to church when he was little, but when she moved to Ohio, Race had stopped, except for funerals.

He still came to those.

Victoria smiled at race, and Race smiled back.

'_She loves me,_' he thought proudly, '_Wait till she sees da chicken.'_

Ali grinned. "You have to have some of the corn."

"You'll love da chicken."

"You carved it?"

"Yeah."

William brought the platter of poultry to the center of the table and picked up a large serving fork. Each receiving their pieces, they began chowing down - until Ali started sputtering. She brought the napkin to her mouth and spit something into it. Race's face fell. She didn't like it.

But she must've seen his expression, and after her coughing, put her hand out. "No," she said hoarsely, "It isn't the chicken. The chicken's good. It's just..." She looked at what she spit out in disgust. "It's just, there was a piece of bone in my chicken."

Race froze.

But Victoria smiled. 'It's okay, dear," she reassured her daughter's friend, "Everyone makes mistakes sometimes. So, Anthony, dear, where do you go to school?"

"Ummm.. I don't go ta school, ma'am."

"What?"

"I was in school, but den sumthin' happened an' I had ta leave."

"Oh, really? How upsetting."

"Who's your father?" William chimed in.

Racetrack paused. "Frances Higgins," he said slowly, the name coming out with force.

"Oh. Never heard of him."

"Not many have."

"Do you live with him?"

"No."

"Oh?"

Racetrack had not been looking foward to this part. "He's dead," he said, chewing on a piece of broccoli. The table fell quiet.

"What!"

"Yeah, dere was an accident in da factory he was workin' at."

"Oh, that's horrible!" exclaimed Victoria. "I won't bring it up again."

She cut a piece of her chicken off and started chewing. She nodded, signifying that it was good, and just as everyone started to take a bite, a look came over her face. And she too spit into her napkin.

Race, who had a forkfull of peas in his mouth, stopped and raised his eyebrows.

Victoria pulled something out of her mouth, and stared at it. It was a pointing, white object. Indeed, it was a bone.

"Anthony,"she asked, "I'm hoping this is the last bone we'll find?"

Racetrack shrugged. "I ain't neva - excuse me - I haven't ever carved a boid before," he admitted.

Arthur pulled a huge slice of bone from the meat. "Yeah, we can all tell," he said smartly, being only eleven. Race stared at him, daring him to say more, but the kid didn't. Good. If looks could kill...

William, who found a bone in his too, picked up the china dish and inspected it. From the outside, the chicken looked normal, put pulling the slices apart, he observed that it had been _cut through the bones completely_. Race gulped.

William stared at him. "You said you've never carved a bird before?" he asked, in disbelief.

"Nope. I've neva even set a table."

William looked at the chicken. "So why, my dear boy, didn't you say something?"

"..."

"Anthony!"

"I thought ya'd be mad, sir."

"Mad! I would've cut the chicken right!"

"I'm sorry."

William had turned bright red, and the table fell silent again. Ali stopped, looking at Race. He might be kicked out. She looked at her father, then Race again. A tiny chuckling caught everyone's attention, and William turned to see his wife stifling a laugh.

"Anthony," she sighed softly, "You didn't know what to do so you cut straight through the whole bird?"

Race found this funny, as did the whole room. He grinned and laughed at himself, while Ali snorted and Arthur was rolling around on the floor. Even William, who had been angry a second ago, closed his eyes and smiled a bit, before sitting back down.

Ali poked Racetrack in the side. "When you're done, go to my room. I'm gonna stay here and ask what my parents think of you."

Race nodded. "Ya want me ta help ya clean up?"

"Lord, no."

* * *

Race had been banished from the table, so he retreated to the bedroom, as he had been told, and sat. The sky outside was dark, as it had been getting darker earlier, and the only light in the rooms were from kerosene lamps positioned around, on the desk, the nightstand, and the dresser. He yawned, and noticed how his voice echoed.

Ali walked in, smiling. She nodded, and Race smiled. "You can stay."

Race went to give Ali a hug, but she held a hand out, stopping him.

"But," she said, "My father says you have to stay in the attic."

Race shrugged. This clearly did not bother him. "S'okay," he said cheerfully, "Gotta be betta dan tha rooms in tha lodge."

"How bad is it there?"

"Compared to this, pretty bad."

Ali smiled. "Well, now you're here. So you won't have to worry about that."

"Thank ya a dozen."

"'Welcome. Want to see the attic?"

Without waiting for an answer, Andria pulled open the stairway to the attic and began climbing up. Racetrack followed her, and saw the nicest attic he'd ever seen. It was plain, with light blue walls and wood floor. There sat a bed, a little sleigh bed, and in one corner, there were boxes stacked upon each other. He guessed this was the guest room as well as the attic.

But being delighted overcame being polite, and he sprung onto the bed, it's springs making a squeaking noise as he did. Grinning, he looked at Ali.

Ali just laughed.

* * *

"So yer in a gang?" Spot asked Natalie, laying on the floor and propping himself up on his elbow. Natalie nodded.

"What is it faw?"

"What?"

"What is it faw?"

"... It isn't for anything."

"What's it name?"

"It doesn't have a name."

"Evwy gang's gotta have a name."

"No, this one doesn't."

"Do ya have a cause?"

"No."

"What kinda gang is dat!"

"Our kind."

Spot rolled his eyes. You couldn't argue with this kind of person.

He looked at her. She had brown hair that went a little past her shoulders, and it was had a little wave to it. She had brown eyes to match, and skin that looked like porcelain, save for a few scars on her arms he had noticed. He began to think.

"Where'd ya get dose?"

"Get what?"

Spot pointed to a tiny scar on her knuckle. "That."

"Oh, this?" Natalie looked at it, as if she hadn't noticed she had it herself. She shrugged. "I don't know. A fall, probably."

"Clumsy."

"No."

"Yeah."

"Whatever." She sighed and checked the clock on the wall. 10:30. She yawned, starting to feel tired. "I think I'm gonna go to bed now."

"Don't fall up da stairs."

"You shhh!"

Spot chuckled at this, and stretched. He was feeling worn out, too, but he wasn't going to admit that. Going into the bathroom, he looked around. He didn't have a toothbrush. God dammit. But Spot hated having morning breath and Spot didn't get what he hated, and cupping his hands under the sink, he gargled a few times. The cold water woke him up even more, which didn't help at all, so he plopped himself down on the living room couch and picked up a magazine. It said something about a farmer's almanac, but he skipped past that part and read about gardening. _Boring._

He looked up to see John standing over him. John smiled and took a seat next to him. Spot, who had almost had a heart attack, put the magazine down.

"Yer up late," he commented.

"So are you," said John, and there was an awkward silence. "I've come to talk to you about the rules of this house."

"Excellent!" Spot said, in fake enthusiasm. "Straight from one King to another." He grinned.

John didn't know what he was talking about. "Erm, yes, " he said. "Anyway, there are a few things you will need to know in order to stay in this home."

Spot sat, not doing anything.

"Rule one," said John, "You will have no intimate connections with my daughter. I trust you don't, but if you do, you'd better end it now. This means I don't want to see you to hugging, kissing or," he paused, "No sexual relations."

Spot laughed.

John shook his head. "I'm being frank."

"I'm bein' Spot."

John sighed. "I thought you'd be able to handle this. If not, you'll have to leave."

"Naw, I'm just joshin' wit ya. Continue."

"Number two - You will get a job, if you don't already have one-"

"I have one."

"Oh?"

"I'm a newsie."

"–And fifty percent of all your earnings shall go into this household."

Spot jumped up. "Wha ?" he asked, eyes narrowing.

"If you want to stay, you have to earn your keep-" John started, but was quickly cut off.

"Lower it," Spot said dangerously, "Thirty percent."

"Forty five."

"Lower."

"Forty, and that's it."

"Fine."

"Other things you should follow," John continued, "No swearing. Go to church on Sundays." Spot groaned, and John chose to ignore it. "No drinking, smoking, or bringing your punk friends over here." Spot laughed. "My 'punk friends'?"

"Yes. I've seen how those people are."

"Me friends is in Brooklyn."

"Well, none of those rats are coming in my home - and that's another. No pets."

Spot shrugged. He didn't have any pets to start with.

John smiled. "Well, with that said, I hope you'll enjoy staying here. Tell me, how long will you be?"

"Two weeks, maybe."

"Good. And I trust Natalie's showed you where you're sleeping?"

Spot blinked. "Uh, yes, she has," he lied. No, she hadn't. Well, yes, she had, but she hadn't given him the pillows or blankets she had promised him when Race left. So he'd be sleeping on the straw tonight, again.

"Well then, I bid you goodnight."

Spot nodded and headed upstairs to Natalie's room. Pushing his way in, he saw her, sleeping.

Time for another Brooklyn Wake Up.

Taking a stuffed rabbit with long legs, he hung it from her bedpost, before carefully pulling a pillow from under her head. He raised it, and slammed it down on her back, and she awoke with a start, before seeing a rabbit hanging in front of her and barely containing a scream. Spot laughed hysterically, slapping his leg and doubling over.

Natalie, realizing who and what it was, sighed and pulled her pillow over her head.

"What do you want?" came her muffled voice.

"Gimme dose pillows an' blankets ya promised me."

"Get them yourself."

"I don know where dey are!"

"Then sleep on the floor!"

"Kings don sleep on da floor."

"Then get off your ass and search for them!"

Spot smirked. "Ohhh," he said, "Good girl said a bad word."

Natalie looked at him, her hair tasseled. "I've always said that."

"Say it again."

"Ass. The definition of you."

"Oh, go suck it," Spot replied, and yawned. He realized how tired he was. Too tired to argue. He headed up to the loft when Natalie muttered "G'night." Spot made a noise, and continued up. The strong smell of hay filled his nostrils, and he sighed. The loft was warm, and he decided that he wouldn't need the sheets after all.

That night, he had another dream. It was a continuation of the previous dream. He saw the girl there, smiling, mouthing something, but there was no sound. He felt a nice peacefulness again, and he could tell the dream person of himself was saying something to her, because she nodded and laughed. But he couldn't see her face, it had a blur to it, and he recognized her, but didn't know from where.

Suddenly, it took a turn for the worst. The picture faded, and red and black and white flashed about in his mind, before seeing blood splatter, and with a snap, he was awake.

His heart thudded in his chest, and he was panting, like he had been running a mile. Looking around in the darkness, a chill went up his spine, then down again through his entire body. The heat was gone.

There was a tiny light from the stairwell, and he heard footsteps, but unlike the Brooklyn lodge, Spot knew the door to this home was locked, so it couldn't be anyone trying to kill him. He sat there, in a daze, and pulled a piece of straw from his hair. Natalie came into view, holding her kerosene lamp, not making a sound. He sat up.

"Spot," she whispered, coming over to him and squatting down. He noticed that she had a thick shawl wrapped around her shoulders. "Spot, the furnace isn't working. We lost heat. Dad's trying to fix it."

Spot wasn't all too surprised. "I asted ya faw blankets."

"Well, even those wouldn't do any good now," Natalie said, "It's late autumn. Wanna come downstairs?"

Spot nodded and picked himself up. The coldness chilled him to the bone. He followed Natalie into the kitchen, where Arthur had at least six comforters wrapped around him and Molly was lighting up a fire in the fireplace. From below, they could hear William working furiously away with the furnace.

"Sean," asked Molly, "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Uh, sure," Spot said, hesitating. He had never had tea before, and wasn't exactly the easily-pleased person. But Molly and William had let him stay, so...

A cup was placed in front of him as he sat down, full of a green-yellowish drink. "Sugar or milk?" asked Natalie, and Spot, not knowing anything about tea, shook his head. Natalie stared at him. "Neither?" she asked in disbelief. Spot didn't get the idea that it was extremely hot, so he swallowed the whole thing.

It was pretty funny to watch. He tipped his head back and guzzled it down, and there was a pause before his eyes bulged and he looked like he'd spit it out all over. As discretely as he could when you're stuck in a room full of people, he spit the tea back into the cup, and took a few deep breaths.

"Why's it so hot?" he demanded. Natalie looked at him.

"I asked you if you wanted milk in it," she said, shrugging.

"Ya didn't tell me da tea would be hot!" Spot said.

"I thought you'd figure that out yourself."

"Ya know I can't do dat."

Natalie laughed to herself

Truer words had never been spoken.

* * *

A/N: Yeah. The romance is coming, the romance is coming! 


	13. The Garden

Chapta Thoiteen

* * *

Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies.

* * *

A/N: Ah, romance in this chapter.

* * *

The next morning, Racetrack woke to see Ali in his room, putting something in his dresser. He yawned, startling her. She pivoted around and closed the drawer.

"Whattaya doin'?" he asked, stretching.

Ali smiled. "Nothing."

"Why ya up here?"

"I was gonna wake you up."

"I can wake up by myself," Race said, kicking his feet over the side and yawning again. Ali shook her head.

"No, you can't. It's twelve."

Race looked at the clock. Ah, indeed, it was. Well, that's what happens when there isn't any Kloppman to wake him up.

"Can I use yer bathroom?" he asked, standing up. He wanted a bath more than anything in the world.

"Yeah. It's down the hall."

"Dere towels in dere?"

"Yup."

Race moved slowly into the bathroom, he wasn't being rushed, thank god. It was so... clean! Spot would have a fit if he were in there, because, in the corner sat a, you guessed it, porcelain tub.

Stepping into it gingerly, Racetrack sat. Unlike the little basket of wood they called a tub at the lodge, hot water flowed from the faucets of this one. He leaned back and laid there for at least forty-five minutes, before Arthur came pounding on the door and shouting, "I gotta get in there!"

"K, hold on," Race called back. He pulled the plug and wrapped himself up in a towel. As soon as he opened the door, Arthur charged in and slammed it closed again, right in his face. Race stared for a minute, then returned to his room.

Ali was not there anymore, and in the privacy of his own little place, he dropped the towel and went over to the dresser. Opening the drawer, he saw Ali left him a little note and some presents:

_**Racetrack,**_

_**These are some clothes my mother and I got for you a few days ago. Your old ones you wore when you came in are in the wash. Hope they fit!**_

_**Ali**_

Underneath sat about six different shirts, four different pants, underwear, socks and vests. Race liked them immediately. Getting dressed, he looked at himself in the mirror. He looked awesome. Everything matched perfectly, and he looked like a rich newsie. Ha, that was almost an oxymoron.

Going to find Ali to thank her, the thought of her made his heart jump a little bit. _'Great,_' he thought to himself, _'I have a crush on 'er, but do I have ta act like some giddy bonehead?' _

He went downstairs, and wondered if Spot was being treated as nicely as he was, or if he was just being there.

And he wondered, did Spot have a crush on Natalie?

He knew that when Spot liked someone, it would bother him for a long time, because Spot was Spot and didn't usually talk about love, then he'd flirt with the poor girl for a few days, bed her just to get it out of his system, and leave. He knew his friend, and this was what he did. But if he did like Natalie at all, he wouldn't be able to leave as quietly as he'd be able to if it were some girl on the street. He could even recall the time Spot hired a prostitute, just for one night, and even _she_ became attached to him. How annoying.

Walking outside, he found Ali pulling pumpkins from their vines, before it got too cold to even go outside. She smiled up at him, and he kneeled down next to her and rolled up his sleeves.

"Hi," she said, yanking a pumpkin from the ground. Race pulled a cigar and a piece of flint he carried in his pocket and scraped it.

"Thanks faw da clothin'," he said, pointing to his outfit. Ali laughed.

"They fit alright?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

"Can I help ya?"

Ali pulled her hair back into a ponytail. "I don't know," she said, "Do you want to get those clothes dirty?"

Race then stood up, preceded over to the little bench they owned, pulled down his suspenders, unbuttoned his nice, new shirt (and folded it, too), and put his suspenders back on. Mind you, it was late October, and he was walking around without a shirt on. The cool wind chilled him to the bone, but that was okay. He strutted back over, cigar in mouth. Ali stared.

He sat next to her and grabbed the vine of a pumpkin. To his surprise, it had tiny, invisible spines sticking out all over it, and they stung like mad when he grabbed it. However, when he went to pull them out, he found they weren't there. The stinging became worse and worse as he tried to pull more pumpkins or made a fist.

"Oh, you got those prickly things in your hand?" Ali asked, taking his hand and inspecting it. Race smiled to himself. Her touch was warm but firm, and she ran her smooth fingers over his. But the moment was interrupted as her nails pinched at a splinter, causing him to pull his hand back in pain.

"Oww," he said shortly, and Ali rubbed the tiny wound. 'Sorry. We'll get it out later, I know how to with some hot water. I've got a few of my own," she said. Holding up her own hand, she had so many they were almost visible.

'_A **few**?'_ he thought.

The pair sat in the peaceful quiet, pulling pumpkins from the ground, enjoying the world around them. Race found a stubborn veggie that refused to come up, so he took he tapped the cigar's ashes over the vine, burning it through so it came undone. Ali's face cracked into a grin.

"That's one way to do it, I suppose."

"Ya obviously ain't seen da ways we do things in 'hatten."

"Do I want to?"

"I dunno."

Ali laughed, a laugh that sounded like bells to the hormonal boy sitting next to her.

Suddenly, he decided what he would do. It would be quick, sudden, uncalled for, random, and he'd do it now, before his burst of courage slipped him

Another pause, and he straightened up.

"Ali?" he asked.

"Yeah?"

He leaned over and pressed his lips against hers. Gently prying her mouth open with his tongue, they kissed, and Ali returned it eagerly, stronger than his. This gave them both a shining sense of confidence, and they did not make a move to end it. Slowly pulling away in the need for air, Race looked at Ali. She wiggled, and her face was flushed red.

"Race, I–"

"Sorry."

"No, it's okay," she said, slowly, "I didn't mind."

"Dat was bad."

"No, it wasn't," she replied. "I won't tell if you won't."

"I don think yer parents would feel so good if dere daughta was kissin' some bum on da street," Race said, eyeing her.

"You aren't some bum on the street."

"A few days ago, I was."

"Even then, you weren't."

"Yeah, I was," Race argued, "An' dat was bad faw me. Yer nice enough ta let me stay in yer house faw howeva long I need an' here I am goin' and gettin' all attached ta ya."

There was a silence, as they looked at each other, and Racetrack realized what he had said. _Gettin' all attached ta ya._ The cat was out of the bag. Whoops. He had spilled his own secret. But Ali didn't seem to upset, and even though the adrenaline came a ' rushing, he held his breath and hoped she wouldn't mind.

"Racetack... do you like me?"

"Y-yeah, I do." No use hiding it anymore.

"..."

"..."

Ali smiled. "I like you, too."

He had not been prepared for this.

"What!" he cried, still nervous.

"I do." And as an afterthought, she added, "And I'm glad you're staying here."

Race said nothing, but gaped at her. _She_... liked him! But there hadn't been any clues that told him so, otherwise... But now that he thought about it, there were. In fact, anyone looking at it could tell she liked him - She bought him new clothes, hugged him a lot, trusted that he wouldn't tell anyone about her gang. And, she kissed him back. Duh.

'_Grahhh!'_ he thought to himself angrily, _'If I had known, dis woulda been easier!'_

Ali watched him carefully. She had thrown him way off guard. '_Maybe,' _she thought, _'I should've told him first.'_

Indeed, it was true. She had had a crush on him ever since he visited her when she was sick, but she was good at hiding things like this from everyone. (Including me, the all-seeing narrator!)

There was a slight change in the mood, as Racetrack eyed her with a bit more confidence. "So..." he started, hoping she'd catch on and he wouldn't have to finish the sentence, "So..."

If she did notice, then she was being cruel, or just wanted to hear the words from his mouth. She looked at him.

"So..." Race started, for the third time, "Do you want to..."

"?"

"...Go out?" Frank and to the point.

Ali stared a bit, making the nervous feeling come rushing back in, and he felt he needed to sit down. But instead of shaking her head, she smiled.

"Thought you'd never ask."

* * *

A/N: No Spot in this chappie, but in the next one, there'll be plenty. R & R! 


	14. Tea Time

Chapta Foiteen

* * *

Disclaimer: Don't own Newsies.

* * *

A/N: More things piece themselves together, and some more fluff. 

Oh, and at this point, I should explain something - I WILL be throwing random songs into chapters. There are some things said better with music in the background, especially when I have a writer's block and need to get something down. But don't worry, I'll tell you when there's one coming up.

* * *

Spot was watching Natalie, which, in fact, was a very interesting and time-killing thing to do. The two sat in her room again, Spot sitting in the chair in the corner rocking slowly, and Natalie sitting on the bed sowing. Spot's cane made an annoying tap whenever the chair rocked foward, and after a while, it sounded like it was tapping to a melody. Perhaps it was boredom, perhaps it was stupidity, but he noticed this, and rocked faster, and then slower, listening to the tap. After a while of just this and no other sounds, he ducked just as a ball of yarn went sailing towards his head. 

"Stop!" Natalie cried, distracted. She was sowing him a new hat, or, at least, patching up his old one for winter, and had been listening to the tapping for half an hour.

Spot stretched. The metal key which hung on his necklace caught the light and weakly reflected it onto the wall behind his friend. Natalie was already over the whole tapping incident, and absentmindedly, she asked, "Is your real name Sean Patrick?"

"Yeah."

"Where does Spot come from, then?"

"I'm a spot on da ass o' humanity."

Natalie chuckled but did not look up. Her face suddenly folded into a frown and she shook her finger as the needle poked her. A drop of blood oozed out.

"Ya got blood on me hat."

"You're welcome."

After a moment of nothing, ignoring her finger and continuing on with the hat, she asked again, "But, no, really, where's it from?"

"Me name?"

"Yeah."

"I dunno. I think it's cause I got me dis spot on me wrist heah," he said, holding out his wrist. Natalie looked up. A tiny little birthmark sat, small and innocent.

"That's it?" she asked.

"Yeah. It's da only one I got."

Natalie looked at him. His skin was perfect. Now that she checked, it _was _the only spot on him.

Spot pulled his wrist back. "Whadda bout you? Ya got a nickname in yer gang?"

"Yeah, I do. Cappie."

"Cappie?"

"Uh-huh."

"Weird name.'

"So's Spot."

"Well, at least dere's a reason faw it. Where does Cappie come from?"

"My hat."

"Wha hat?"

Natalie stared at him like he was something she peeled offthe bottom of her shoe.

"My _hat_," she said, slowly, and pointed to her closet. Spot picked himself up and made his way over, to see clothes, shoes and clothes... and a hat. It sat there, light blue, like the kind of hats the newsies wore. He didn't know girls wore them... But then again, he didn't know girls had gangs, either.

"Ali have a name?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

"Yeah, Checkers."

At this, Spot laughed loudly.

"Checkers?"

Natalie stared. "Is there something wrong with that?"

"Yeah, dere is."

"What?"

"Ya goils don know how ta make nicknames."

He flipped his hair back and snickered to himself. Natalie watched him. The tone he used wasn't an insulting one, it was a friendly one, or at least, as friendly as Spot could be, so she didn't take offense to anything he said.

Lately, an odd feeling had been creeping it's way into the back of her mind, but today it was up-front and ready for some action. It was a warm and happy feeling, but wasn't love. No, she had been in love before, and she knew from good experience that love didn't come as easy at this, nosirree. Crushes could spring up in the blink of an eye, and that's what this was, but not love.

Before this, the fourteen year old had been seeing a seventeen year old named Pumming (chapter 5 or 6, peeps). He. Was. An. Asshole. Ali had hated him from the moment she saw him, but Natalie had ignored her friend's judgement and went out with him. No, she was **not** the tragic girl abused by her boyfriend. There was nothing tragic about it. They just broke up, and she was practically dancing with joy.

But the thing she felt with Spot was different than a crush. It felt more like... they were connected, on the same page, but they didn't know it. She had a feeling that Spot could tell something was with her, but not what.

And all of this, she kept to herself.

* * *

Racetrack bit his lip as another brush of wind chilled him to the bone, but he kept his arms forcefully plastered to his bare sides. He felt like an idiot - walking around in the late October weather with winter on the way, and he was shirtless. Ali was across the yard, all the pumpkins picked, and she was shoving them into a shed. 

'I should be helpin' her,' he thought, snapping on the suspenders. He had offered to help her, of course he had, but Ali saw how cold he was and shooed him away and told him to get a shirt on and said she'd do it herself, and that she'd make him a nice cup of tea when she was done. But, despite her kindness, the newsie felt bad, that he should be the one helping her. After all, he was her boyfriend.

Her _boyfriend._

It was still a surprise to him that they were already going out - it had been so sudden, everything had happened so quickly. Something in the back of his head told him things were moving a bit too fast for his taste, but she was the girl he liked, and ignored the thought.

As he finished fumbling with the last button, Ali came over, wiping her hands together. She wrapped her arms around his neck. Racetrack sighed. All doubts of them left his mind. He was happy.

"Now I need to buy you a sweater," she commented. The thin shirt was icy cold, probably colder than the air around it, and it'd take a while to warm up to his temp.

"Naw, I'm fine."

"No, you're not. Come inside with me."

They walked side by side towards the house, not saying anything. Slowly, making sure not to mess up, Ali slowly slid her hand into Race's, refusing to look at him. Race watched her. A deep red flushed her face, but he made no motion to take his hand away.

Of course, in a peaceful, happy, romantic moment like this, something was bound to go wrong. Just to ruin the moment.

Racetrack stumbled over an outstretched tree root.

With an 'oof!', he slipped, but landed on his hands. However, anyone who is a human being knows that landing on your hands does _not_make you immune to injury, and he landed on the sharp root, cutting a thin line into his palm.

Ali knelt down next to him, almost as fast as he had fallen, before she saw the blood. Race's mind flashed to his leg, but he put that aside and stood up. Ali took his hand and looked at the cut.

"You okay?" she asked, a smear of blood dotting her fingertips.

"Yeah, I think so. _Owww..."_ he squeezed the wound, causing more blood to come dripping out.

"Does it sting?"

"Hoits a little bit."

"Here, come in, let me clean it."

Racetrack held his hand, not taking his eyes off the cut, until Ali put her hand over it. Race stared at her.

"Yer gonna get blood all ova yer sleeves," he commented, wondering if she'd care.

"That's alright."

They walked inside, and Ali rushed to the cabinet, where she pulled out a gauze pad and began to dress the cut. Race focused all his attention the girl next to him, admiring her with a warm affection, but it was soon interupted as she gave a painful yank on the bandage and tied it together. Ali then kissed his hand, keeping her eyes on him as she did, and he tried to resist, but couldn't, and kissed her on the cheek. She laughed.

"Guess you won't be able to drink your tea," she commented. Race shrugged.

"S'okay."

"Here, sit down, sit down. Tell me if it starts hurting anymore."

Ali began washing her hands in the cold water that flowed from underneath the pump. Shaking them dry, she sat put up a pot of water to boil on theold stove and took a seat next to Race. Not a word was said, until she shifted and asked, "D'ya think it'll leave a scar?"

Racetrack shrugged and eyed the wound. "I dunno. Can ya even get scahs on yer palms?"

"I haven't ever gotten a scar on my palm, but I do have one on my hand from where I fell down the stairs a week ago," Ali replied, and she rolled up her left sleeve to show him a jagged little scar, pink and faded, but small. She poked it tenderly, and he raised his eyebrows.

"Ah," he bragged nonchalantly, "Ya ain't seen wha happened ta me a few daises ago." He rolled up his pant leg, revealing the fresh scar from the knife. "Look at dis."

Ali stared in horror. "Where'd you get _that_ from!" she cried.

"Me an' some boydies was down by the track," he recalled, "An' someone pulled a knife on me.'

"A kni–"

And something hit Andria Wells right about then. A disturbing realization. Only a few days ago had Natalie returned home from the racetrack and said she saw someone almost get stabbed. Memories flashed through her head.

'_...But one of those guys was gettin' it really badly. Like, really badly. **They almost stabbed him**.'_

Apparently, she had turned pale. Race put his hand to her forehead, a look of worry clouding his eyes. "Ya okay?" he asked. Her voice was faint and shaky, as was her figure, and she dropped herself into a chair and said, "N-no, I don't think so..."

"Ali?" Race's voice threatened to call the doctor.

Ali shook waved him away. "No, no, I'm fine,' she stuttered, "It's just..." And she trailed off.

"Ya look like ya just seed a ghost aw sumthin'."

She lifted her eyes and gazed at him. "I _should_ be seeing a ghost in front of me."

"W... Wha does dat mean?"

"It means exactly what it means," she said, "Race... How did you make it out?"

Race rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I don ezactly know," he said, "But someone threw a rock an' it hit the goon who was tryna' stab me. So dey only scratched my leg."

But Ali had stopped listening after she heard what she had been listening for.

"_But someone threw a rock."_

Race abruptly stopped talking, after realized she wasn't listening. "Ali?"

"Race..." she began. The kettle on the stove started whistling loudly and obnoxiously.

"Yeah?" he asked, clueless.

"I know who it is that threw the rock."

The tea was done.

* * *

A/N: So, yeah! The big secret's out, or at least, one of them. Looking back on how much I've written and how much I have yet to include, I'll say there's going to be around 25-30 chapters, so brace yourselves. Carryin' the banner! 


	15. Celebration

Chapta Fifteen

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Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies.

* * *

A/N: Starting now, the Manhattan newsies become an allegory. An allegory of what? I won't say. But keep reading. Anyone who likes lots of romance will like this chappie and the next few. And now, you shall finally see the other side of Spot. Kind of. 

QueeneyZ - Look who I've added in! Love ya!

* * *

**_In Queens_**

* * *

"Davey, get over here!" called Mush loudly. The team of newsies, which included Skittery, Jack, Blink, Bumlets and Boots stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, causing some angry passerby to shove themselves through and throw a number of rude words their way, only to have them returned to them. They were searching for their comrades, and Davey was leaning against a wall, kissing a young, black haired girl who was his new object of interest. Going by the name of Christine, she had abruptly caught his attention, and had accepted his sudden proposal of being his girlfriend. Jack and Sarah had long broken up, and luckily, Davey was not in the least mad.

He whispered something into Christine's ear that, from their place, the newsies could not hear, and it was either very funny or very inappropriate, because Christine doubled over with laughter and Davey started snorting. And you know it must be funny when Davey starts snorting, that and because Davey was Davey and Davey was not someone to say something very inappropriate... often.

He stumbled over, his hair tousled from his public make-out session with a grin as wide as the Mississippi river, and Christine headed off her own way back home. Her parents would not be very happy if they saw her traveling around with a parade of boys... But she'd be back.

"Bet ya can't wait faw dis ta be ova so ya can retoin ta ya mistress when ya get back," Mush commented, and Davey laughed loudly, because Davey does that.

_(Me: I'm serious, people! Re-watch the movie during the restaurant scene after The World Will Know. He just bursts out laughing at the most random times!)_

Jack patted his friend on the back. "Have you got a goil, Mush?" he asked, over the chatter of voices. Mush shook his head. "Not faw keeps, no," he said.

"Wha does dat mean?"

"Means shes a goil by day, goilfriend by night," he said, with a naughty twinkle in his eye, and the whole group shared shifty glances and snickers.

_'Oh yes,'_ they all silently agreed, '_heis cool.'_

* * *

**Back in the Bronx **

* * *

Spot was bored. 

He and Natalie were doing nothing, again. It was around noon, maybe one-ish, and tonight, she had promised him blankets and pillows, so there'd be something to look foward to, but it was s l o w...

He sat, munching on some stored up sunflower seeds and flipping carelessly through books. In this house, you had to learn to enjoy reading, because that was the only thing these peeps did in their spare time. Wow.

A knock on the door raised both of the teens to their attention. Natalie looked at Spot, and Spot looked at Natalie, and there was more knocking.

"You get it," Natalie said.

"It's _yer_ house."

"True, true... Okay, get upstairs. It might be thepolice again."

Spot ran to his all-too-familiar hiding place, and Natalie opened the door. But neither had much to fear, as it was Racetrack and Ali standing there.

Spot crawled down, whilst Natalie gave Ali and Race a hug. Spot nodded his greetings to the visitors, before pulling Race over and asking, "Ya goin' out wit her yet?"

"Yeah," Race replied mischievously, and Spot snickered. Typical boys.

Natalie closed the door with a _thunk_ and turned to face her friends. "What're you guys here for?" she asked. Ali took a seat on the couch. From in the kitchen, Natalie's mother was clanging around pots and pans to make lunch.

"Natalie, remember how you went to the track a few days ago?"

Natalie nodded. "Yeah, in Brooklyn. So what?"

At the word Brooklyn, Spot looked up. "What was dat?" he asked darkly, his eyes drilling into her and narrowing. "You was in Brooklyn?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Spot, shhh!"

"But--"

"Spot!"

"Remember how you said you saw a fight?" Ali tried to continue.

"Yeah, so what? What does this have to do with anything?"

Racetrack sat, silent. He had learned of the news earlier.

"Me n' Race was in a fight, wasn't we?" Spot asked. Racetrack nodded, but did not say a word. He was as deeply shocked as Andria had been at first. Hopefully, it'd wear off soon.

"Well..."

"What?" asked Natalie, growing anxious.

"This was the kid you saved."

At first, neither Spot nor Natalie knew what she was talking about. Spot looked curiously at Natalie. What kids had she been saving in her spare time?

But then it hit Natalie. The racetrack, the fight. The poor kid who had been laying there, ready to die. The knife, the yelling. She had seen Racetrack before. She had even seen Spot before, but more importantly, she _had_ seen Racetrack before.

It had been him.

He rolled up his pants to show her the scar from the knife. Color returning, to his cheeks, he walked over to her and smiled.

"Thanks," he said.

"Y-You're welcome..." Natalie said, a grin on her face, mixed with a bit of surprise.

Spot stared. _She_ was the one who had thrown the rock! He had thought she was the kind of girl that did nothing but sat at home and cooked. But she had saved his best friend's _life._ Natalie started laughing, nervously, and he caught a glimpse of her eyes. Not bothering to look before, he saw something in there he'd never seen in anyone else's before - a mix between happiness, freedom, and love.

"You... You were da one who threw da rock?" he asked, barely believing what was playing itself out in front of him. Natalie looked at him, her laughter becoming sweet and happy.

"Yeah, yeah, I did!" she cried, as if she couldn't believe it herself. Race and Ali smiled.

Spot looked at the three. It suddenly occurred to him what he had been doing wrong his whole life - taking people for granted. 'You never know what you've got til it's gone,' his mother had once told him. And this was semi-true. Racetrack had almost been taken out of the world in front of his eyes, but he was still here, thanks to the young girl that stood before him. He had taken her for granted all those times they had fought over stupid things, like where the blankets were or for her to make him food.

_I'm such an asshole._

The thought lodged itself into his brain and clamped down. And the bad thing was, it was true. He _had_ been an ass to her, and now she probably didn't like him.

And that was bad. Because, now, more than ever, he wanted her to like him.

Desperately.

Putting on his best face, he said to her, "We should have a party."

There was a silence, as they contemplated this. Ali checked her watch. "It's early enough," she said, looking down the street towards her house. "We can have it at my house, in Race's room, cause I think your parents _would_ mind, Cappie."

Natalie nodded. "Mom," she called, "Can me and Spot go to Natalie's house?"

"Sure, dear. Be back by suppertime."

The four trotted out the door, but they could not roam the streets as freely as they normally would - Spot and Race were still being searched for, and Spot's face had been shown to every bull in New York, so they knew who they were looking for. Once reaching Ali's house, they took off their shoes and coats, and Ali called, "Mom, I'm having some friends stay for a few hours."

"Okay, dear."

They retreated to Race's nicely done-up room, where Spot looked around in awe. "Race, ya lucky bastad. Ya stayin' in here!" he asked, looking at the ceiling. Race gave him a punch. "Yeah, I am."

Cappie smiled at Checkers. "You let him have the guestroom?"

Ali looked at her. "Why? You aren't letting him stay in your guest room?"

At this, Spot stared. "Ya... Ya have a guest room!" he cried, and Natalie smiled sheepishly, "An' ya makin' me stay in the attic!"

He reached out and pinned her against a wall, smiling. Natalie grinned. "Yeah, so I did," she laughed, "Whaddaya gonna do about it?" She was starting to take his accent.

The room fell silent, and Spot looked at her, his eyes drilling into hers.

"I should punish ya," he said slyly, his emotions taking control of him, before realizing what he said and backing up. Race and Ali sent each other looks - they knew what was going on.

Spot had a _crush_.

But Natalie had no problem with this. She laughed the whole thing off, but as she was against the wall, her mind pleaded, _"Kiss me, will you?"_ She knew she'd never say it, though, and that if her parents ever found out she had a crush on him, he'd be out, but it was worth the risk. The scene replayed in her head as she sat down, his blond hair free from it's hat and blue eyes scanning her. She could've sworn, had he stayed there a bit longer and not said a word, she would've kissed him.

_But it was only a crush,_ she reminded herself.

_Only a crush._

* * *

A/N: Awww! R & R, and you'll see much more! 


	16. Innocent Love?

Chapta Sixteen

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Dislaimer: I don't own Newsies.

* * *

A/N: Ah, one of the best chappies right here - Spot's change of character continues! Keep reviewing, it's my motivation!

* * *

The party was a tad boring. 

It hadn't been planned, and therefore, no one knew what to do. Perhaps it was Spot, perhaps Ali, but after thirty minutes, someone threw it out on the table - "Why don't we play five minutes in the closet?"

**(Me: Yeah, they _did _have that game back then.)**

The rest of them agreed, and they paired up - Ali and Race practically clung to each other, so Spot shuffled over to Natalie - he wasn't upset, although anyone could be fooled by his slouching, but he had an image to keep. He was liking Natalie more and more by the minute, whenever she laughed or smiled or made a joke - and his mind silently cheered him on when he realized they were partners. For someone like Natalie, though, reading Spot was a bit harder, and she took it he was upset.

Racetrack and Ali were up first, and as they opened the door to step into the tiny closet, Ali gave him a look that was only meant for him to see. But Spot's eyes were good ones, and he caught on to the seductive twitch and the curve of her smile, and obnoxiously shouted, "Yeah Race! Gonna get some?"

Race snorted and shook his head as he stepped in after Ali. Covered and dipped in sarcasm, he replied, "Oh, you _bet_, Spots. You _bet_." The closet door slid shut, and no one said a word for about three minutes, before Spot got bored and decided to raise hell. Creeping over ever so silently, he rested his ear against the door, listening for any possible noise. However, neither of the two in question had been expecting to see a Spot eavesdropping on them when they came out, so as they opened the door, it bonked the Brooklynite loudly on the head and sent him sprawling backwards. Race jumped about a foot in the air, knocking over Ali, who was still halfway in the closet, and she tripped over the door frame and got herself tangled in a clothes hanger, whilst Natalie stood by, making fun of her. And utter chaos fell upon the Wells household.

Finally, after a good deal of laughing, cursing, tripping, and punching, Racetrack quieted himself down enough to suggest, "Okay, Spotty, how 'bout you? Yer turn ta go in."

"Don call me Spotty," Spot reprimanded him, "It makes me sound like I'm diseased aw sumthin'."

"Ya are. Yer diseased in da head."

"Stupid."

"Jus' go." Race made a shoving motion towards his friends, and ever-so-daintily, Spot stepped into the closet, followed by Natalie. Her face dropped a little as she saw the face he was making - which reflected absolutely none of his emotions - because she could not see past his front yet, and thought he didn't like her. The tiny glimmer of hope she had had for this crush was beginning to fade.

The closet was stuffy.

As the door slid shut, the light was cut off, leaving them sitting in complete darkness. It smelled of mothballs, and it was hot, dusty, and crowded. However, they were crammed together, and Spot smelled faintly of mint, while Natalie had the aroma of strawberry, so that was one less problem to deal with.

They sat in silence for about two minutes, shifting around in the darkness, and they could see each other's outlines, but that was it. Natalie's doubts grew. No one said you _had_ to kiss in the closet, but how many other times would she get an opportunity like this? She knew that Race and Ali had kissed in here, judging by the fingerprints and hand prints all over the walls in dust (Heehee), and she hoped to god she wouldn't have to make the first move. Because she was going to get a kiss today.

Whether he liked it or not.

Spot's heart was thudding rapidly. He could see her brown hair catching tiny specks of light in the dark, giving her a shape, and he could hear her breathing, rather close to him. He wondered if he should kiss her, before the thought became a nagging and the nagging became an urge. Being a very impulsive person at heart didn't help, either, so he mustered up all the courage he could and leaned foward.

"Natalie."

Natalie was only aware Spot was close to her by the sudden minty smell that surrounded her. And as she looked up for a face, he kissed her.

It lasted only a few seconds, but it was a few seconds of ecstasy. His lips pressed on hers, worming his way into her mouth. He was experienced at this, so he questioned himself as to why he was so nervous - it wasn't like this was a first, but perhaps it was one time that mattered. He put a hand out as he leaned against the closet wall, drawing out the kiss for a few seconds longer, before he pulled away, and his outline was lost to Natalie.

She could hear him shifting around in the dark again, resuming his posture, and not saying a word about what had just happened - she supposed he was that kind of person who kept the past in the past - and finally, after a minute or so, reached up and grabbed the latch and swung open the door.

Stepping out into fresh air, Spot pulled a cobweb from his hair and dusted himself off. He had waited to get out so his face would have time to go back to it's normal color instead of red, as it had been a few seconds ago. Looking foward towards Ali and Racetrack, he did not turn to Natalie, who looked a little flustered but okay.

Race approached Spot with a comical grin on his face. "So, Spot, ya look like ya been up ta sumthin'," he announced, loudly. Spot did not turn to look at Natalie, or even say something about it. He laughed quietly, then said, "Now, we's gotta play anudda game - got any ideas?"

"..."

"...Poker?" suggested Race, looking around sheepishly.

"No."

"Eh..."

"Hell no! I don have a cent on me!"

"Yeah, but ya got one around ya."

"Put a lid on it, ya bonehead."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"Well," began Ali, "We _could_ play truth or dare."

There was a silence, before Race nodded and Spot chuckled. Natalie clicked her teeth. "Sure," she said, refusing to look at Spot.

Two could play at this game.

She could see him purse his lips and his eyes grew a cold shield over them, and began to think he was angry. But that wouldn't make sense, because he kissed her first. Maybe he was upset with her performance or something? Ah, well. That's the risk you take.

But Spot was not angry in the least - he was embarrassed, just waiting for her to go and let it slip that he kissed her - and the longer she didn't mention it, the worse he felt. It was like some big climactic procedure, and it was grating on his nerves.

So the four sat down and began the game. Racetrack rolled first, and it landed on Spot.

"Spotsy, truth aw dare?"

"Dare, bitch."

"Alright, den... I dare ya ta act out a rich fancy-smanschy lady."

Spot fanned his face with his hand and said in a high voice, "Oh, deary me, take me now, Anthony dear." He then fell into Race's arms, and Race bent over and kissed him with fake passion, causing Ali and Natalie to fly into fits of laughter that practically shook the attic. After the boys' little charades were done, it was Spot's turn to spin the bottle, and it landed on Ali. Race gulped.

"Ali, I dare ya ta..." He paused and thought for a moment, "Go an' make out wit Race. Right ova there."

Ali paused and looked at Race, and Race looked at Ali, before the pair stood up and abruptly began kissing like no one's business. "Yeah Checkers!" shouted Natalie, cheering, and Spot sat laughing and "Woo!" ing.

After a moment, the couple sat down, blushing and chuckling. Taking deep breathes, Ali rolled the bottle, and it landed on Spot again. A wave of nervousness overcame him as he saw Ali get a deadly twinkle in her eye - he would _pay._

"I dare you to make out with Natalie," she said, without giving him the option of truth. There was dead silence, as Natalie stood up, followed by Spot.

There was no avoiding her now. Looking into her eyes, he felt the heat in his cheeks start up, because this time there was no closet to protect them and shield them from the humiliation. But there was no avoiding it, and he leaned foward.

Natalie moved her head the rest of the way, trying to ignore the giggles from Race and Ali, who sat on the floor. This time, there was tongue - not as if there hadn't been the first time, but much more now. And passion. She found herself getting so caught up in the kiss she didn't notice when Spot pressed her against a wall, or when his hand found itself in her hair. But when she finally opened her eyes, there he was, blue eyes watching her every move and with the bit of a smirk on his face.

Wow, he was _hot._

And he couldn't avoid her now, since they had basically shown the world what had gone on in the closet. Maybe even better.

And it seemed they parted just in time, because a few seconds later, footsteps were heard coming up the staircase and Ali's mother appeared.

"Andria," she called, softly, "I think it's time your friends be going home. It's getting late."

"Ok, mom..." Ali replied, shaking her head.

Spot and Natalie nodded, and Victoria left. Shaking hands and hugging and saying goodbye, the two made their way outside the house and across the street, where they walked down the sidewalk in silence.

"So..." Natalie finally managed to say. Spot glanced up.

"I... I'm sorry if you're embarrassed," she continued, looking at her feet. Spot looked at his.

"Wasn't yer fault."

"But... If you plan on ignoring me..."

"I ain't ignorin' ya."

Natalie looked at him hopefully. "You aren't?"

"No," he said slowly, "Who said I was?"

"Well, no one, but..." she gave up, and there was a slight pause. "You sure you aren't mad?"

"Don be stupid," Spot warned, "I kissed ya foist."

"I'm guessing that wasn't new for you."

Spot shook his head. "Naw," he said, kicking a rock out of his way, "Yers?"

"No."

"Really?" He thought he had gotten her first kiss.

"Nope."

"Who was da lucky kid?"

"I dunno. About two boyfriends ago."

Spot stopped and looked at her curiously. "Ya that popular?"

Natalie shrugged. "I guess."

"Wow." He sighed. So he wasn't the first guy to like her... Like her? The thought popped into his head as suddenly as it shocked him. Spot Conlon... having a crush on Natalie O'Rourke? He thought of the day's events and realized that it did seem like it... He had been acting way different around her than with anyone else. He kissed her a few times, tried to always be next to her, and pinned her against a wall and threatened to 'punish' her. If Racetrack and Ali could notice that, did that mean Natalie could herself? He had kissed her, yeah. He had made out with her. But there had been no resistance, or he would've stopped right then and there.

_But there was none._

So it either came down to one or the other - Natalie liked him back, or was incredibly naive.

Spot smirked to himself.

Now he had something to do in his spare time.

Goodbye, reading. Spot Conlon, the King of Brooklyn, has a crush.

* * *

Later that night...

* * *

Racetrack Higgins lay on top of his bed, reading over the note Ali had written him when she gave him the new clothes. Call it sad, but he wanted a piece of her with him wherever he went. Which meant he'd read the same tiny sentence over and over again if he had to. And he did. 

The whole room was dark, aside from his kerosene lamp which sat on his nightstand. He stuffed the note in his pocket, but was sure to fold it neatly first, and lay in the darkness, staring at the ceiling. He wasn't tired enough to go to sleep yet. A cold chill swept up his spine, and he was beginning to doubt the furnace would ever work properly again.

Soft footsteps on the stairs gave him a ten second warning. Flicking out the lamp, he dived under the covers, touseled his hair, and closed his eyes. The footsteps were so soft that he knew they weren't William's or Victoria's, and Arthur didn't even bother trying to be quiet - yesterday he awoke Racetrack by banging on a toy drum in his ear.

He heard the footsteps creeping over to his bedside, and a light filled the insides of his eyes. Doing his best 'you-woke-me-up' impression, he yawned and stretched. Ali stood above him, holding her own kerosene, and she smiled a bit.

"Ali...?" he asked, trying to sound dazed. She gave him a playful swat across the face.

"It's really obvious you weren't sleeping," she pointed out. He sighed and rolled his eyes, totally losing the tired act.

"Okay," he asked, "So whaddaya want? Want me ta read ya a story?"

"No..."

"Aw," he said, grinning mischievously, "We could –"

A whack in the back of the head shut him up, very suddenly, and the only noise in the room was the echoing _fwump!_

She laughed. "Mind if I sit?"

"Go ahead. It's yer bed, anyways."

Ali sat on the edge, before laying down next to him. The two lay in silence, staring at the ceiling and listening to the last remaining crickets outside, chirping their lives away. No one said a word, before Race held out the corner of the blanket to her.

Ali paused, looking down at him, deciding whether or no to accept this invitation. But seeing his adorable little face and messed up hair peeking out from a giant pillow and heavy blanket was enough to make her take the blanket from him and get under it. She knew how sensual the scene looked, but she trusted him. Race was making no move to go any farther, and neither would she - they were fine just being together, which was something Ali treasured in their relationship. Very few people could say they could sleep in the same bed as their partner and _not_ do anything, but she could... and it was refreshing.

Another cold draft entered the room, and she felt it through the blanket. Race must have felt her shudder, because ever so gently, he wrapped an arm around her waist.

Ali turned, and he removed his hand. Facing him, she began to say something, but he shook his head.

"I'm sorry... If yer uncomftable, I won't..."

She looked at him, and realized, he was innocent. No matter what he did, he always would be, and it was this quality that had attracted him to her in the first place. So, laying back down, she shook her head.

"No..." she whispered, "It's okay."

He smiled. "Ya sure?"

"Yeah... Just remind me to wake up in the morning."

He chuckled and nodded, and wrapping his hand back around her waist, the two fell asleep nuzzling, and the cold was gone.

* * *

A/N: Awww, that's true love right there. You better R & R for this one! 


	17. Little Bit o' Everything

Chapta Seventoin

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Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies. Holy crap, big shocker.

* * *

A/N: Okay, so now everyone has crushes on each other. But if you fear we are drawing to the end, you're dead wrong. I'd say there's gonna be about thirty-five chapters, because there is so much that needs to happen (No, I'm serious. My plot is like seven pages long). Thank you to all my reviewers!

Note: I won't be updating so quickly, because I've fallen behind in my chapter-typing, but they'll come. Patience.

* * *

Ali slowly opened her eyes to see sun streaming in through the tinted windows. Realizing that Racetrack had failed to wake her, or even himself up, for that matter, she threw off the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Where her head had been was a soft indent in the fluffy pillow, and Race, who was laying next to her, stirred. He yawned and wiped his eyes.

"Goin' so soon?" he asked, dazed. Ali bent over and gave him a long kiss good morning. After parting, she turned to pick up her kerosene lamp.

"You forgot to wake me up," she noted.

"I can't even get meself up," he laughed, before dropping back onto the bed. He was too tired to function.

She ran her fingers through his hair. "It's early yet," she said, "And you aren't expected to be awake by now or anything, so you can sleep if ya want."

"Nah, if ya get up early, I'm gettin' up early, too."

"Aww," she cooed, "Thank you. But anyway, you'd better pray my mother didn't come up here to check on you in the night."

Race raised his eyebrows. "Den jus' tell her ya were sleepwalkin'."

"...Sleepwalking."

"Yeah."

"..._Sleepwalking._"

Race smiled innocently. _"It's a good idea!"_ he insisted.

"Sure, she'll believe it," Ali said, sarcastically, "And I just so happened to end up in your bed."

"Yeah!"

Ali made an 'I-can't-believe-you-just-said-that" face. "Never mind," she sighed, "But be ready in twenty minutes. You might have to leave, worst come to worst."

Racetrack gulped, but nodded, and began dragging himself from the bed, something which was extremely hard to do.

Andria crept down the stairs, and as she reached the bottom, she sighed in relief. No one was in her room. Putting down the lamp, she closed the pull-down door that led to the attic, locking Race in. As she began to get undressed, she heard a loud thunk on the ceiling, and looked up.

"What was _that_?" she called, pulling a new shirt on.

There was a silence, before a low moan. "Ahhhh..." Race called back, "I have fallen an' I can't get up."

Ali snickered to herself and pulled on some work pants. She listened to the amusing sounds from the room above hers, the dragging of a body on carpet, as Race, who had fallen out of bed from being tangled in the sheets, pulled himself around the room, still too lazy to get up. Irony was, that when he did get up, he was dressed and brushed faster than Ali was, so he spent fifteen minutes digging through the boxes in the corner and moping around like a bum.

When Ali pulled open the door, he practically sprang down, tired of being in one place so long.

"Be ready in twenty, ay, Ali?" he asked, teasingly.

"Hey, there were things I needed to do."

"Really. Do ya wanna know wha I wanna do?"

Ali shook her head. "Not really."

Too late. He then preceded to tell her, causing her to snort.

"Race!" she said, pretending to be shocked. Racetrack gave her an apologetic hug.

"Why're you so eager to get around me?" she asked.

Racetrack looked at her for a minute. "Are ya doin' anythin' taday?"

Ali grinned slyly. "Why? Ya gonna ask me on a date?"

"Maybe."

"Well, I haven't got any plans. Where is it to?"

"I dunno. Wherever."

"Where does that mean?"

Racetrack rolled his eyes. "Dat means whereva I wanna take ya. I got a little place in mind, but it's a secret."

"Lemme guess," she said, "The racetrack?"

"No, it's a secret. Ya'll see when we gets dere."

* * *

"He stays over here," said Davey, motioning for the group of newsies to follow him, "Hetello hangs out over here. If any of his boys ask, tell them you're with m—" 

"--Cowboy," interuppted Jack, causing snickers from the crowd. Seeing the dirty look Davey threw him, he defended, "Dey don know who ya are, Davey. Dey know who I—"

"I met him at the rally!" said Davey, "He knows who I am."

The newsies were now in Coney Island, and were searching for it's leader, a boy going by the alias Hetello. Rumor had it he had committed a few murders and had been sent to the refuge more than Jack himself had. But the mysterious, infamous legend was no where to be seen.

However, the group had come all the way over here from Queens, and they were not leaving without seeing who they came for. Having already been to Queens, they had been searching for it's leader, Whistler, but he was nowhere in sight and his boys had said he was out visiting someone. And they had left, empty-handed.

The troupe kept walking, turning corners under Davey's instructions, like a little army. Christine walked by his side, the two making conversation as they went, and quite a few other boys tried to flirt with her, but she swatted them away.

They reached the beach, where the smell of low tide was overpowering and fog seeped in from the water. It wasn't that great a day to be out, so the boardwalk was completely and utterly empty aside from them. In fact, it was so bad that you could only see twenty feet ahead of you before there was only fog.

"Ya lookin' faw Hetello?"

The deep voice startled them, and Mush turned to see three guys, about nineteen years old, staring at them angrily.

"Yeah, we are," he chimed in defensively, but was silenced by a look.

"He ain't heah," the second boy said. "Who da ya punks think ya are?"

Cowboy stepped forward. "We's da Manhattan newsies, an' we have an appointment wit him. Now."

The third boy, and biggest by far, got up in his face and eyed him. "Yellow baby."

"Dat ain't healthy," replied Jack, tipping his hat, and all the other boys watched, confused. What did that mean? Was it a code or something?

Then, the boy nodded, and from behind him, Hetello stepped foward. He was strikingly handsome, with brown hair so long it was in a ponytail, and piercing blue eyes. He wore a long-sleeved shirt, but rolled up the sleeves, and his hands were rough and calloused from long, hard working.

He and Jack did a spit shake.

"Ah, Cowboy," he said. "It's a good thin ya was heah on time faw yer appointment. I woulda been... upset... if ya hadn't come."

"Ya can always rely on me."

"Well, now ya proved it. What may I be a service faw ya?"

Jack took a breath. "We's lookin' faw a guy named Spot..."

* * *

Spot was sitting on the roof. 

He didn't know why he bothered - he had been lounging around in the attic, doing whatever it was that Spot did in his free time (Me: Uh-oh), and he got bored and climbed out a window and was now sitting on the roof. Easy as pie.

The day was a cold one, and he was glad he didn't sell papers in the winter, but that meant he'd either have to stop spending money or steal more frequently. The nice gold watch on his wrist, it hadn't been his, but hey. The guy needed to know the time!

A cold breeze chilled him, and he climbed back in and shut the window. Laying down in the hay, he was incredibly bored. He wasn't tired, he wasn't too hungry or too full, and he had no chores. On a day like today he would... Well, this was a first for him.

Footsteps up the stairs told him Natalie was coming, and he almost jumped with excitement. This would give him something to do.

"Hey," she said, holding a cup with some type of fruit in it and eating it.

"Hey."

"Today's boring," Natalie concluded. "What have you been doing?"

"Nuthin'."

"Ah, me too. I wish we could visit Ali and Race."

"Why can't we?"

"They have a date."

"Ah. Well, ain't dat jus' like Race, bailin' on da borin' times. He always got sumthin' betta ta do."

"Isn't that good?"

This stopped him. Spot was sure he'd be happy if he had something to do on a boring day, but... Well, he wasn't about to be taught any morals. He rolled over in the prickly hay.

"Whateva."

Natalie offered him a piece of apple, but he shook his head and she ate it herself. There was an awkward silence between them.

"Y'know," she began, thoughtfully, "About last night..."

Spot said not a word.

"Are you ignoring me now?"

"No."

"Then why won't you say something about it?"

"'Cause I don't."

"That's not a reason."

"Yeah it is."

"Look, please," she asked, "You're going to be staying in here for the next week or so. Just talk to me. Are you embarrassed or something? Because no one needs to know."

Spot opened his mouth and began to say something, but stopped when he heard the last line. _No one needs to know. _Was she suggesting they have a relationship but keep it a secret?

'_No,'_ he reminded himself, _'It's **Natalie.**'_

But Spot did have a crush on her, and he could not deny it. At times she was a pest, but then again, there were times when he supposed he was one, too. Other than that, he liked her a lot, in every aspect - the way she moved, the way she smiled, looked at him, the expression she had when he made a vulgar joke - it was all good, and twenty-five percent wanted to tell her, while the other seventy-five percent said no.

But if she was willing to admit it first, he would.

But he wouldn't say, "I love you."

No.

The words, he decided, right then and there, would never leave his mouth, for anyone. He'd say other things, sure. But never 'I love you.' That was too sappy for Spot. So he swore to himself he wouldn't, no matter how much he liked someone. Even if he got friggin' _married_, he wouldn't.

Never.

What a stupid swear.

He'd end up breaking it, anyway.

* * *

A/N: Oh, foreshadowing. R & R! The next chapter, Race and Ali's first date, Spot and Natalie crushes, and it's all to a songfic! Carryin' the Banner! 


	18. Admit It

Chapta Eighteen

* * *

Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies

* * *

A/N: Just a note, if you're looking for an update, I usually go on at 9:00pm to post a new chapter, and if I'm really late, then I'll post it at ten. However, lately my parents have been holding off on giving me the internet, so I may take two or three days. But I will finish this fanfic, unlike many of my others. With that in mind, review! Happy Belated Thanksgiving. 

Warning - Fluff.Gotta have it. But, hey, what story doesn't?

* * *

Natalie was growing impatient. With herself and Spot. 

The fourteen year old was dying to tell him how she felt, although, by her willingness to kiss him, he probably already knew.

It wasn't fair! Racetrack and Ali were going out already, and she sensed Spot liked her back, so why was everything in a standstill? Natalie knew deep in her heart that Spot would never talk about love like she could, and he wouldn't admit it in a million years if it even was true, but she couldn't bring herself to do something about it.

She groaned as she looked at the list of chores her mother had left, scribbled on a piece of paper. Pulling out a razor, she washed off a dusty potato and began to peel it. Spot himself was out somewhere, most likely drinking and having a blast.

The razor hit a slippery patch and almost sawed off her fingertip, but she pulled her hand back in the nick of time and sighed. Moving on to another potato, she became vaguely aware of a presence in the room. She turned to see Spot, watching her.

She jumped a bit. "Spot!" she cried, the potato slipping from her fingers, "Ah, don't do that!"

"Do wha?"

"Sneak up on me."

"I ain't sneakin' up on ya. I'm standin' here."

"Well, don't do that, either."

Spot sat down.

After a pause, of him watching her and she peeling the last potato, she wiped off her hands and sat down across from him. The two sat in an awkward silence, and Natalie shifted uncomfortably, before saying, "I hate bringing this up, but..."

Pause.

"Last night was weird."

"Yeah," Spot agreed, less than enthusiastically.

"Ali and Racetrack really are in love," Natalie continued.

Spot did not reply.

"Like, serious love," Natalie said, "Ali just told me that just last night she and Race shared a bed."

Spot looked up. "Dey do anythin'?"

"No."

Spot shook his head.

Natalie put her hands down flatly, annoyed. "Not all types of love have sex in them, Spot," she said, quietly.

Spot listened to this. It was the first time he had heard her say the word sex, and it was interesting. He thought about the crush he had on her. She was right. Not all types of love had sex in them... but it was a perk. Literally.

Seeing the silence was growing uncomfortable, he asked, "Do ya like someone?"

Natalie paused, before nodding. She did not take her eyes off of him.

"Who?" he asked.

"I wouldn't tell you!" she laughed.

"Why not? Is it me?"

"Maybe..."

Spot put on his mischievous grin and stood up, and so did she, but unlike him, Natalie was the one trying to stifle laughs. She couldn't lie.

"Tell me!" he pestered, but before he could say another word, she started laughing andbolted out of the kitchen. He chased her, not worrying about her parents because they were both at work and Arthur was at a friend's house. Up the stairs, through the halls, into the basement, through the living room - where he finally grabbed the back of her shirt and held her back, and pinned her against a wall, grinning. She was laughing too hard to breathe, and her face began to turn red.

"Are ya gonna tell me aw am I gonna make ya talk?" he asked, leaning in close.

"You're gonna have to force it out of me," she chuckled, looking straight into his eyes. There was another silence, before Spot held her shoulders against the wall and leaned in to kiss her.

Natalie knew what was going to happen before it did, and tried to stop laughing so she wouldn't mess it up. The doubts that remained in her mind burned - he did like her. It was obvious.

Spot was an expert as this. As he kissed her, he noticed she was clinging to him, a sign which read - "I like you." His hand found it's way into her hair, and the other held her chin so she wouldn't turn away, not that she'd want to.

And then, it grew a little more serious. The sweet smell of her hair tantalized him, and he found himself kissing away from her mouth - down her neck. She sighed, and he felt the tiny pulse in her neck, beating away. He was making her nervous.

As he reached the base of her neck, she made a little noise, and put her hand out, stopping him. He looked at her.

"No, you can't," she said, taking a deep breath. He stood up.

"So, I'm guessin' ya like me?"

"Yeah, is it obvious?" she asked, sarcastic. Spot chuckled, before sighing, and wiping his forehead.

"Yer not dat bad yaself," he commented, eying her, and she stopped. Was he coming on to her? If he was, she'd be in heaven.

Spot stepped back as she moved past him and began walking around.

"What are you saying?" she asked, leaning back on the table.

Spot shrugged. "I'm sayin' ya aren't dat bad lookin'.So, ya have a crush on me?" He paused, as she blushed deep red. "Why _me_?"

"I don't know..."

Spot opened his mouth to make some smartass reply, but then caught himself. He was doing it again - taking her for granted. Reminding himself that _he_ had been the one who had desired her attention, he changed his face to a kinder one.

"Well, dat's okay," he said quickly, maybe a little _too_ quickly. Natalie looked at him hopefully. "Yer a cool person." God, he messed that up! What he had wanted to say was something along the lines of, "I like you, too," but it came out completely different. Dammit.

"Does that mean..." Natalie started, trailing off, leaving him to answer it. He paused.

"Dat means... I-I'm askin' ya ta be my goil."

Silence. Spot couldn't believe he said that, but it wasn't something he'd -feel bad about later on. Natalie's eyes widened in surprise and delight, and the light returned to them that he loved so much. Her mouth dropped.

"Wha... What?" she said, happily, stuttering.

Spot's cheeks tinted with blush." I said... Do ya wanna be my goil? I thinks yer a really cool poison."

Natalie sat, smiling, and you could practically see her thinking about the options, before something clicked, and she shouted, "Yes!"

She leaped into his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck joyfully, squealing. Spot was surprised at her weight, and caught her, but stumbled backwards, knocking over a chair and pushing the table. He made a grunt and his back pressed into the pointed edge, but he and her embraced, ignoring the pain, and he sighed silently.

He had finally done something he wouldn't regret.

* * *

A/N: Ah, finally. Now, the story begins to take shape - forgive me if the next chapter is dull, I have to get over this hill and the story will get all coolio. 


	19. Something Strange

Chapta Nointeen

* * *

Disclaimer: I ain't ownin' Newsies or "Ebudae."

* * *

A/N: Yeah! They finally got together, what we've all been cheering for! WOO! Read on now. Song in this chapter, or a part of it. (Ebudae)

* * *

Ali crept up the stairs to the attic where Race was lounging around. She had another surprise for her boyfriend and wouldn't pass up a chance to see that cute, adorable scared expression he got when she pounced him. 

Their date yesterday had been awesome, or, at least, she thought so. He had taken her to Irving Hall to see the plays

She stepped on a creaky board and froze. It was about seven, and she knew he wasn't asleep, so she had to be super careful while carrying out her attack. Reaching the top step, she saw Racetrack, lying on his stomach, reading something. She tiptoed over and stood above him, holding her breath. He didn't notice. Not even look up.

With a "RAWR!" and a jump, Racetrack spun around in fright just as Ali landed on his chest. She laughed and he tried to breathe, before pulling her up to meet his eyes.

"Wha the hell ya think ya doin'!" he cried, but his eyes were playful and carried a twinkle which read something Ali could not understand. He took her chin with his hand and pressed her mouth onto his in a greeting kiss, which was quickly turned into something else. She kissed him back, praying she wouldn't start laughing and screw it all. He rolled over, with most of the power, and, like she had feared, in their parting, she started snickering. He stopped and raised his eyebrows.

"Wha?"

"You look funny when you're scared."

"Thank ya."

"You also look funny when you kiss."

Race looked at her like she was an alien. "Who da fuck keeps dere eyes open when dere kissin'?" he asked, confused. Ali laughed, and, forgetting his seriousness, joined her.

After a moment or so, he went over to the mirror and began fixing his touseled hair. "So," he asked, combing an annoying piece behind his ear, "'Side from just me bein' hot, wha's all da 'let's- pounce- Race' about?"

Ali swatted at him playfully. "You? Hot? Let's not flatter ourselves."

"Who's flatterin' demselves?" Race raised his eyebrows jokingly.

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding...You're hot... in the eyes of a dwarf."

Race laughed, slapping his knee, and was quickly joined by Ali.

"Anyway," she continued, after she caught her breath, "My parents said we could go out to dinner tonight, so you can come if you want,"she invited. Race didn't even need to stop and think. "Sure," he replied, "Where to?"

"Some place called The Umbrella."

"'Da Umbrilla'?"

"Yeah."

"Neva hoid o' it."

"It's at the far end of the Bronx - and it's fancy."

"Fancy?"

"You shouldn't have a problem."

"Fancy is me middle name," he answered, puffing his chest out mockingly and strutting around. Ali stood up from her place on the bed and kissed his cheek, before he turned and the two made out for about five seconds.

"I'll let you get dressed," Ali said, stepping towards the stairwell, and Racetrack saluted her. As she trotted down the steps gaily, she began to wonder where the line was drawn between true love and a crush.

Because she couldn't tell anymore.

* * *

"Racetrack!" Ali called, forty-five minutes later, and then realized that her parents didn't know that he had a nickname and shouted, 'Anthony!" 

The family was waiting by the door, ready to go, but Race was holding them up for no apparent reason.

"Wha?" he finally called down, his voice distant and faint.

"What's taking so long!"

"I-I can't go!" he finally answered.

Ali paused, then asked, "Why not!"

"Cause I can't!"

"Why not!"

"Come up here."

Ali glanced at her parents, who nodded, before running upstairs to see Racetrack who, apparently, hadn't dressed up fancy in a long time.

He. Looked. Like. A. Clown.

Nothing matched. Brown, Blue, Black, White... Red. Ah. It hurt her eyes.

"Race..." she started, sighing and shaking her head, "Just... Just start over. Take everything off and start over. Black goes with white. Black goes with blue. White goes with anything. And hurry up."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, he came downstairs. He was still a bit mismatched, but it was fine. They had waited long enough. 

The group hopped into the small, black horse drawn carriage, Ali's father taking the front seat to lead the mares. Race, Ali, Victoria and Arthur clamored into the cab and sat, silent. Race and Ali sat side by side, and Victoria sat, pale and tight-lipped as usual, and Arthur stared out the window. It was dark and rainy, and the bumpy streets made the ride seem even more uncomfortable. Race peered out onto the dark streets. Rain pattered against the clear windows, making a noise that could only be described as... well, rain. He turned.

After about thirty minutes or so, Victoria pulled on her hat and swung open the door, gusts of wet wind blowing in.

"I'll be right back," she said, "I'm just going to sit with your father."

Victoria stepped out and closed the door, leaving the kids to sit quietly. Racetrack pulled down the tiny curtains, not wanting to look at the gloomy weather. Ali sat, rigid, for a few more moments, before smiling oddly and stretching. She gazed at him.

"Well," she started, cracking her knuckles. Race put his feet on Victoria's empty spot. "How long does it take ta get dere?"

"Not much longer, I suppose."

"Suppose?"

"Well, yeah... It's bad out there, it ain't a sunny day that where everything's clear."

"Hmm..."

Ali sighed, and there was a pause.

"Race, what do you want for Christmas?"

"Christmas?"

"Don't tell me you don't–"

"I know what it is," he intervened, than thought for a bit. "I dunno. I ain't used ta gettin' presents." He paused again. "Am I even allowed ta stay dat long?"

"I can ask."

"Thank ya."

"Oh, guess what?" Ali cried suddenly, apparently happy.

"Wha?"

"In a week, my family's going out and visiting my cousin, Dawn, and we're staying at her house for two days. If you want to come to that, you can, and that'll be your excuse to stay longer!"

Racetrack smiled to himself as Ali planned everything out

He loved her so much.

* * *

That Night...

* * *

Natalie lay, under her covers, thinking. She was feeling crappy the last few days, with a bit of a cough, but it was going away. With a sigh, she stretched her arms. 

A faint humming noise brought her to attention, and in the dark of night, sat listening. It was coming from Spot's room, and it sounded like he was singing. She chuckled to herself. Spot..._singing?_ Did he think no one could hear him? Because he was dead wrong.

Creeping upstairs to the attic, she was surprised to find him asleep, muttering in Gaelic again.

**_"Amharc, mná ag obair lá's mall san oích,_**

**_Ceolann siad ar laetha geal, a bhí,_**

**_Bealach fada anonn's anall a choích."_**

It was a pretty melody, and he whispered something else that was inaudible. His back was turned to her, and she gently took his shoulder and rolled him over. 

He was crying.

Natalie hadn't thought it possible to cry in your sleep, but it was. Eyes closed, puffy and red, tears halfway down his cheeks. She grew uneasy, watching him suffering from something she could not help - he was asleep, he was out of her hands. But she brushed his face lightly, and he stirred - before his eyes popped open.

Spot gasped a bit, not expecting to see her there, and sat up, only to find his face wet.

"Wha happened?" he asked.

"You were crying in your sleep."

Spot searched through his memory. Yes, he had had a bad dream, and it had disturbed him badly, but he couldn't remember it. It was probably the same dream about the girl and the tombstone, but he set it aside and wiped his cheeks off. "I'm fine."

Natalie put her hand on his neck. "You sure you're alright?"

"Yeah... I dunno wha dat was."

"What?"

"Nothin'."

Natalie sat, gazing at him affectionately for a few more minutes and rubbing his head softly, before smiling. "Okay. Well, goodnight."

"G'night."

* * *

A/N: not much in this chapter, but in the next one - Spot and John go a' huntin' and the Manhattan Newsies are ever drawing closer.

* * *

**Gaelic Translation and Pronounciation:**

_"Amharc, mná ag obair lá's mall san oích"_ (Amm hark min Ag o bear las malls an eesh) **Look, women working by day and late at night**

_"Ceolann siad ar laetha geal, a bhí,"_(Sho lin shay ard air latha geel, a bee) **They sing of bright days that were**

"_Bealach fada anonn's anall a choích." _(Bee lach fada a nun's a nall a chee) **A long way back and forth forever**


	20. Almost

Chapta Twenty

* * *

Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies.

* * *

A/N: Hahaha, more than 100 reviews. Cheers, people! More romance here, only this time, it's more like the kind of romance you'd expect from Spot. :)

* * *

**The Next Day**

* * *

"Spot!" 

"Yeah?"

"Where did you put the sandwiches?"

"Over there."

"Where's that?"

"I don't know."

Natalie put her hands on her hips, annoyed. "How do you _not_ know where you put them?"

"I forgot," Spot replied. He was playing with a piece of wood he found on the floor. Natalie snatched it from him and threw it away, causing him to tousle her hair until she pulled away, even more irritated.

The house was crazy. John, Natalie's father, had requested that Spot join him on a hunting trip to Prospect Park, back in Brooklyn, where they'd shoot the thanksgiving turkey. Spot knew that this was just something so he could 'bond' with the boy that was starting to become like a son.

Also, because of the thing he had with his daughter. A sudden change in Natalie's, _and_ Spot's attitudes were raising suspicions. So, yeah. Spot would bet Race a million he was going to be reminded of rule number one.

He shuffled around lazily, until John pulled on his coat and motioned for him to come outside.

* * *

Later...

* * *

The forest was quiet. 

Late fall brought a chill with it's winds, and Spot was grateful for the large, thick, heavy overcoat Natalie had granted him. He lay on his stomach, back up, in dead silence, with John laying next to him, peering over a bush and waiting for an unsuspecting bird. After about thirty minutes of this, they sat up, deciding no turkeys would come now, and started to unwrap and eat their sandwiches.

"So," said John, "Do you have an education?"

"Nah."

"What?"

"I don have one."

"Any boy that is courting my daughter ought to have some intelligence."

Spot froze, and there was quiet. _"_..._Wha_?" he asked, surprised.

John laughed, flicking his wrist and shaking his head. "I'm just kidding," he said, and Spot silently sighed, "I know you wouldn't do that."

Spot did not respond. How wrong he was.

Another few seconds of nothing, while John turned to fix his gun, before saying, "Because I think you know what would happen if you did, don't you?"

"Yeah."

"Good. So you don't need a reminder."

Spot grew annoyed. "No, I don," he said, refraining from what he wanted to say, "An' ya can stop worryin' if I love Natalie aw not. I don."

John stared at him, but before anyone could say anything else, he quickly turned to hear a gurgling noise - a turkey strutted out from the brush and began pecking at something on the ground. John aimed, then fired, and the turkey landed with a _flop _and a last, weak, gobble.

* * *

"You got one!" Natalie cried, standing at the door. Spot handed her the plucked and naked bird, and kissed the side of her head quickly, so it looked as though he were whispering something to her. 

Natalie chuckled and carried the turkey inside, where she put it on the table and left it, her mother the one to do the stuffing and cooking and such. She climbed the stairs to the second floor, down the hallway, and into her bedroom. Spot was in the attic, and she heard the straw rustling around like he was some noisy animal.

"Spot?" she called.

"Yeah?"

"What did he tell you?"

The noise abruptly stopped, and his head peered down the stairwell towards her. There was silence.

"He said if we was goin' out, he'd _kick_ me out."

Natalie sighed. She knew her dad would say something along those lines. "What'd you say?"

"I said we wasn't."

Another silence.

"Come down here."

Spot managed to pull himself out of the hay and climb down, straw sticking to him everywhere and falling before his feet. He reached the bottom of the stairs, and Natalie stared at him.

"You do like me, don't you, Spot?" she asked carefully, not wanting to tread into territory that wasn't hers.

"Uh, yeah, why?"

"I don't know... It may be fast, but you don't seem to be showing it. This is just how it was a week ago, before there even was anything."

"...So whaddaya want me ta do bout it?" Spot asked suddenly, his voice taking on a husky tone and eyes gleaming with seduction. You have to remember what Race had said - Spot went crazy if he had a crush, slept with the poor girl, and then walked away. That was it. And now, something in the back of his mind was begging him, _"Just this one more person, please?"_

Spot shook the though out of his head. They had only been going out for two friggin days! But he wasn't one to put up with naughty impulses, especially when he had shacked up with the one they were about... most of the time.

Natalie leaned against the wooden headboard, putting all her weight onto her shoulders, and stared at him.

"I don't know," she said, looking out the window, before returning to his gaze.

In a sudden movement, he let it go - the nasty urges he had been having all day. He sprang foward, and Natalie instinctively put her hands up, and he caught them, holding her hands above her head and gazing at her. Her eyes reflected surprise, but that was okay - in two seconds, he pushed her down onto her bed and pounced, kissing her intensely.

For the first few moments, Natalie did not open her mouth - she didn't know what had been coming and was thrown off all together. But she recuperated, and kissed him back, trying to make as little noise as possible. Spot's weight was on top of her, having straddled her, and he was surprisingly heavy for someone of his size... But then again, big things come in small packages.

Spot continued to kiss her forcefully, with a hidden lust that was only just beginning to revel itself. His hands pressed into her shoulders, holding her down, and his tongue traced every corner of her mouth, and finally, he let his hands slide down and they rested on her waist.

She shook her head abruptly, and he sat up.

"...Wha...What do you think you're doing!" she cried breathlessly, wiping sweat off her forehead. Spot pulled himself off of her and shrugged.

She was still panting. "If... If my parents found out, do you know what would happen?"

"Yeah."

"I can't believe you just...!"

"Ya asted me ta show ya I cared."

She could not argue with this, but there was no harm in trying.

"Be reasonable! Even if my parent's wouldn't give you the boot, do you know the reputation I'd get!"

"Somethin' along da lines o' Spot's ho."

She sighed exasperatedly. "Well, yeah..."

Neither of them spoke a word for a while, until Spot got off the bed and went to sit on the rocking chair. Natalie did not move, and, oddly, felt a little guilty - he was just being a boy, or, more likely, a teenager, and she had asked for it. Seeing his downcast and crestfallen face, she too stepped off the bed, came up on his left, and kneeled down. Spot did not look at her, too embarrassed of his own actions to notice she had approached him.

"...Spot?"

"..."

Natalie stroked his hair, making him turn slightly to face her.

"Not now," she said gently, "Maybe someday, but not now. I need to know you better."

The only sound was the rocking chair creaking slowly back and forth, and it was cut sharply as Spot leaned over and wrapped his arms around her neck in an apology.

* * *

A/N: R & R! 


	21. A Good Start

Chapta Twointy One

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Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies. I do own Natalie, Ali, their family members, Christine, Dana, and Hetello. Mwahaha.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanksgiving. Also, I start mentioning neighborhoods in the Bronx, but don't start stalking them or anything creepy like that, because I don't live there anyway!

Hahaha, I'm typing with gloves on. We finally got snow over here and baby, it's cold outside. Been prayin' for a snowday all week, and Friday's my birthday. Huzzah!

* * *

Racetrack decided he did not like kids.

There he was in the early hours of the morning, all nice and peaceful, with not a care in the world, having a very time-killing and inappropriate dream about Ali, when who comes storming in but Arthur himself, marching around and shouting, "Wake up! Wake up! You gotta get up!"

Race's eyes snapped open and he spun around to see a little kid with one of those whirling hats on, prancing around. Looking at his watch, courtesy of Ali, he saw it was five in the morning, and just as his head thumped back on the pillow, Ali's voice rose from her room, "Racetrack Higgins, get the hell up! It's Thanksgiving Day!"

At first, he didn't remember that he had agreed to go to Dawn's house, or whatever her name was, but it occurred to him that maybe, just _maybe_, there was some reason he was being tortured like this.

Just _maybe_.

Forcing himself from his dreamlike state, he rolled off the bed, like he did every morning, but this time, he had been prepared - last night, he left an extra blanket under his bed so if, by chance, he did fall off, he'd be padded.

Ten minutes later, as he pulled his vest with the gold watch over his suspenders, Ali stomped up.

"Hurry up," she hissed, "You're making us late!"

"Ok, ok, I'm comin', hold yer horses..." He began buttoning each button incredibly slowly.

Ali had no patience. Not caring whether he had packed or not, she yanked his sleeve and dragged him down the stairs and outside and flung him into the carriage. Racetrack thumped against the tiny seat, still trying to clear the sleep from his eyes, and seconds later, dodged a flying suitcase that near took his head off.

Ali jumped in after that, slamming the door behind her. It was a clear day, so Victoria and Arthur sat outside next to William, who was once again steering the horses. They had all thrown their bags into the back, so the two teens were up to their eyes in luggage.

They listened to the clip-clop of the hooves on stone, and sat in awkward silence, before Ali said, "Sorry about the rude wake up."

Race laughed nervously. "Heh."

"...But we had to go, y'know?"

"Yeah."

Another silence.

"_Dove abita la cugina di tu?"_

Ali stared at him."..._What?_"

"I had a feelin' ya wouldn't undastand dat."

"Well, what does it mean?"

"I said, 'Where does your cousin live?'"

Ali sighed. "Sometimes I feel like everyone knows Italian but me... Dawn lives in Locust Point."

Racetrack chuckled. "Ah," he said, pausing slightly, "Dat's an... _appealin'_ name."

"Isn't it?"

"It'd make me wanna go dere any day."

Ali laughed. "At least it's not Englewood," she said, shrugging.

Racetrack, who was not familiar with the neighborhoods in the Bronx, raised his eyebrows curiously. "Err, right," he said. "An', wheah do we live?"

Ali's mouth dropped open, and she did not say anything for a few seconds.

"Uhh, Ali?"

"_...You don't know where I live!"_

"...Nope."

Ali shook her head.

"Riverdale, Race, Riverdale! How can you not know that!"

"I dunno... Ya neva told me... Ya just said yer street name aw sumthin... Anyway, I don rememba places by names, just seein' em's fine."

"I'd like to see you get through life with that attitude."

"I'll try."

* * *

Davey awoke with water on his nose.

The eighteen-year-old newsie awoke with a start as he felt water dripping down his nose. He sat up, half his body wet from the hard pavement, removing his arm from around Christine's waist. Sleeping under a bridge was not his thing, but when you're miles away from a safe shelter, you can't be a chooser.

Jack was next to him, curled into a little ball, legs tucked near his chin. Mush lay ungracefully sprawled out, shirtless, but that was okay, because he had been cuddling with... Blink. Christine had gotten permission from her parents to 'go on a vacation with her friend', so she was able to join the boys on their trip... but she had no reason to fear, because another girl had joined them on their trip - someone named Dana, Jack's girlfriend.

Mush sat up groggily, before shoving Blink off of him. Seeing Davey was the only other one awake, he asked, "Where's Hetello?"

"I'm here."

They turned to see Hetello leaning against one of the cement support beams, holding up the bridge. His arms crossed and hair out of it's ponytail, he glared at them - he wasn't exactly angry, but, you couldn't forget this guy was a murderer.

"Whaddaya doin' up so oily?" cried Mush, surprised. Hetello made a face that, up until this point, everyone thought only Racetrack could do.

"I was about ta ask _you_ that."

Davey looked at Mush, who apparently wasn't feeling so great about having an ex-killer guard them in their sleep. "There's no rest for the wicked, eh?" he asked. Hetello snorted.

"Somethin' like that, yeah," he agreed, "Now, if we're all done with the yappin', I'd like to get goin'. Time's a passin'."

* * *

The O' Rourke household was, well... hell. Easily put.

At the last minute, John and Molly had offered to hold a dinner party for Natalie's relatives, since many of them had no where to go anyways. Natalie grudgingly agreed, with some persuasion from Spot.

"All dinna parties suck," he said, "But it's gotta be maw interestin' den sellin' papes."

Natalie laughed. "You worked on Thanksgiving?"

"Yeah, ya had to. Unless ya'd ratha starve, o' course. When ya need money, dere ain't any passin' it up. But we only woiked faw an hour aw two hours 'fore we'd get ta come inside an' eat."

"Ah..." she said, "Well, that sounds better than not celebrating at all."

"It was... But den again, ya have ta rememba, it's Brooklyn, so it wasn't dat good. A lotta my boydies would skip woik all togetha and go ta Manhattan. Now, _dey_ had a party."

But their conversation was abruptly ended as Molly came rushing down on them and told them both to get to work or they'd be eating bones for dinner. Spot was to go outside and chop wood for the fire, and Natalie was sent to the kitchen to make her famous creamed onions.

When all housework was finished, and the last thing to do was get dressed, Natalie took the Brooklynite upstairs and handed him some freshly pressed outfits, clean and new. Spot climbed up the stairs into the attic, only to stop - all his stuff was gone.

"O'Rourke!" he barked.

"What?" Natalie called.

"Where's me–"

Natalie climbed up after him and looked around, before grinning sheepishly. "Oh, I forgot to tell you, didn't I?"

"Yeah, I guess ya did, whateva dat may be," he said, annoyed. "Wheah are my clothes?"

Natalie motioned for him to follow her, and he did, down the hallway, past her room, to the last door, one he had never payed much attention to. But she opened it, and he could barely stifle a gasp. It was the guestroom that she hadn't let him stay in, for whatever reason she had.

But it was all his now.

Walking inside, he muttered in awe, _"A Dhia dhilis..."_

Natalie smiled. "Didn't quite catch that," she laughed, putting a hand to her ear, "But, yeah. You can have it. Which, I think, answers the question if you can stay longer than two weeks."

"I... Wow. _Buiochas. Nil a fhios agam ce' acu ba choir dom glacadh leis no nar choir."_

Natalie stared at him like he was a piece of poo.

"...Yeah, what you said," she said, raising her eyebrows.

Spot chuckled. "I don know whetha ta accept aw not."

Natalie paused, then shook her head. "No, really," she said, "Take it. Please. My parents are okay with you staying in here - God knows they don't want you in my room, especially after yesterday's..." She groped for the word. "...'_Shenanigans.'"_

"...Shenanigans?" he asked, and Natalie would've found this funny, but his tone was a serious one, with rising panic, "How'd they find out? Did you tell them? Do I have to leave?" He himself didn't know why he was so scared of leaving this home...

Natalie gazed at him and put a hand on the side of his jawbone, rubbing the smooth skin. "No," she cooed, "But you can't say they haven't been expecting that sort of thing to happen all along. We'll just have to be more careful, y'know?"

Her hand gently kneaded his cheek, and this time, it was _her_ leaning in to kiss_ him_. They held it like that for about four seconds, before Natalie pulled away and sighed. "You have to get dressed," she said, "And so do I. Meet me downstairs."

* * *

**LANGUAGE Translation and Pronunciation**

**Italian -**

"_Dove abita la cugina di tu?" _(Doe-vay ah-bee-ta la coo-gee-na dee too) Where does your cousin live?

* * *

**Gaelic -**

"_A Dhia dhilis..." _(Ah Dee-a deel-ees) My God...

"_Buiochas."_ (Bway-oh-kahs) Thanks.

"_Nil a fhios agam ce' acu ba choir dom glacadh leis no nar choir."_ (Neal ah fee-ohs ah-gam chay a-coo bah core doh-m gla-cad lays no nar core) I don't know whether to accept of not.

* * *

**Newsie Vocab**

oily - early

woiked - worked

* * *

A/N: In the next chapter, the second, and more interesting, part of the Thanksgiving Dinner Disaster. 


	22. The Thanksgiving Day Disaster

Chapta Twenty-Twosies

* * *

Disclaimer: Newsies does not belong to me.

* * *

A/N: I believe I already revealed the happenings in this chapter, so, yeah. R & R... Jesus Christ, this be a long one. Ah, well. Long chappies are good chappies... And I promise this won't be boring.

**Also, I'm changing this story's rating to M. There isn't anything bad in this chapter, but in the next few, it'll be getting racier and racier... **And even at the real M parts, it won't be so bad, but kiddies, you shouldn't read. Not that I don't want people to read it, but, as you have noticed, Spot and Racetrack have been acting more like hormonal boys, and Ali and Natalie don't seem to have any problems with it... Yeah. But keep reading!

* * *

It is truly amazing what one little sound can do to an entire family.

Take, for example, theNatalie's family. Already bustling about, polishing off the last few tasks and getting changed, it came. Unfriendly and unwelcome, but it could not be ignored - _knock knock_.

Spot was getting changed in his new room when he heard the familiar, yet dreaded, noise. He stood upstairs in front of his mirror and straightened his tie - yes, _tie_. His golden hair sat freshly combed, reflecting the sunlight from the window. At the knocking, he could hear the kitchen, which had been directly below him, take a five-second break from the clatter of pots and pans, then footsteps all over.

Not surprisingly, he wasn't all that eager to get downstairs and greet the guests. He could hear them; the old and the young filing in slowly, letting a sharp, cold wind blow throughout the house, all the people chattering and filling the foyer. Spot sat down on the bed and looked at himself again - weeks or so ago, he would have been out, with frostbitten fingers and getting into fights.

The Brooklynite felt a pang of emotion stab him - he missed his newsie ways, his friends, his home. This house, not matter how nice, wasn't his. This family, no matter how generous, wasn't his. But he pushed the thought from his mind - he had come so far along, and was with the girl he liked more than any other. And his friend Racetrack was suffering the homesickness with him.

If you could call it homesickness.

A knock on his door snapped him from his sadness, and before he could ask, "Yeah?" Natalie stepped in, and Spot instantly forgot his drama.

She was... hot. Wearing a long, dark blue dress that shimmered in the light, it was strapless, but she wore a shawl to cover her bare shoulders.

And, well, it _pronounced_ her! Every curve on her body looked 10x... 'curvier' in that dress. And Spot would never say it, of course, but he guessed she was wearing a corset. His eyes paused on her chest, before he sighed - and maybe just a little too loudly.

Natalie blushed. "Was that a hello?"

Spot took a deep breath, to try and calm himself. "Yeah."

Natalie laughed, before looking at herself in the mirror. "This doesn't make me look bad, does it?" she asked. Spot had to bite his tongue to stop from laughing - Look _bad_? Was she _kidding?_

He stood up and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. "Nah, yer fine," he breathed, and nibbled her ear. Natalie smiled and leaned on him, and the two stood, content. Anyone watching probably could've predicted (And would've most likely been right) that they were about to get a little more intimate, but something had to ruin the moment. A shout from downstairs was heard - "Natalie Catherine!"

Natalie paused, torn between something that had been haunting her for days, or the call of family. She turned to Spot and took him by the hand - earning her a funny look.

"Come with me," she pleaded, knowing his distaste for family reunions.

"Yer aunties is heah, I'm guessin'."

"Yeah, they are. Now, please come down."

Spot shook his head. "Dey won't like me."

Now it was Natalie's turn to stare at him. "Since when is the famous Spot Conlon afraid if people would like him or not?"

"Since Spot Conlon ain't famous no more," he retorted, the ruined it by adding, "An' I'm not afraid. But I don feel like bein' insulted by yer family taday."

"They won't. Not when I'm there."

"They'll call ya a whore."

"But I'm not!"

"Dey don know that."

"Then I'll tell them."

"Dey won't believe ya."

"Yes they will."

"No dey won't."

**(Read this carefully:)**

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Ye– Aw, ya got me," Spot said, just realizing her trick. Natalie snickered. "Look," he tried, "I'll be down lata. Ya have to go see yer family now."

"NATALIE CATHERINE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

"BE RIGHT THERE, MOM!" Natalie shouted back, and turned to Spot one last time. "Aww, come on, _Sean_. What are they gonna do, get old on you?"

"Yeah."

Natalie rolled her eyes and pulled him down the stairs. At first, Spot hesitated, then decided it was her party and he should just go along with it. There was a massive crowd pouring in through the open doors, and one could wonder - how many relatives could a person have?

At first, he wasn't noticed, but as the family then began to settle down, he received more and more queer looks. Finally, the whole room sat watching him and trying to look like they weren't. Natalie was squished between two old ladies, and she was making jerky head motions to make himself scarce.

'_Didn't she just want me down here?' _he wondered, as he waddled off.

As soon as Spot left to pour himself a drink, the chatter started up again - with Natalie caught in the center.

"So, Natalie Catherine, how have you been?" asked her great grandma called Gertrude.

"Um, fine, and you can just call me Natalie."

"Nonsense, child - that is not the full name you were christened with."

"But I–"

"Tell me, who is that dashing young man you were just with?" asked Grandma Elizabeth.

"His name's Sp– Sean Conlon."

"Conlon? Irish, is he?"

"Yes. With some Italian and Romanian."

Her grandmother's face clouded with disgust, as though she had swallowed something wretched. "Ugh, Italian?" she asked, "Nothing good about them."

Natalie shook her head firmly. "Don't say that," she warned, "It's not true."

Her older cousin, Rosa, sat in the corner, silent.

"Why, yes it is," rambled on Gertrude, "You're Irish, Natalie, and don't you–"

"And so is he!" Natalie said angrily, wishing they'd all be struck with a plague of muteness. I mean, there was such a thing as refraining from saying bad things about a person when their friends were standing nearby.

"Is he Catholic?" asked her aunt Sophie.

"I– I don't know."

"Tell me, darling," Sophie pressed, "Why is he here? This is a family party... Surely you did not invite him?"

Rosa looked up.

"Well," Natalie started, "Long story. He was in trouble and was looking for a place to stay and was my friend. He doesn't really have a home, so—"

The conservative aunts, uncles, grandmas and grandpas began making a racket so loud it could match that of crows.

"What?"

"He's staying with you?"

"Outrage!"

"How dare he!"

"What name are you trying to give yourself, girl?"

"Letting that...boy...that _street rat_ stay with you! Are you **mad?**"

"Disgusting!"

"Blasphemy!"

Natalie tried desperatly to take control of the situation. "No, don't worry," she explained frantically, attempting to regain hold of the room, "We aren't in love, he isn't perverted or anything – he's just a friend who needs shelter!"

"Nonsense, if I've ever seen it," said her grandmother, rising dramatically and pointing, "You are letting an Italian street rat in this home to live with you! You should be beaten, and him, given the boot! You **FILTHY GIRL**!"

Natalie wondered how on earth it was that Spot could not hear any of this, but he didn't.

Suddenly, Rosa stood up, her long black hair flowing around her, in a celestial kind of way. Somehow, the sight of this made everyone fall silent and stare, but not in a bad way.

"That's enough, Grandmama," she said coolly, her face shining with an angelic light. Gertrude stared at her, as if she couldn't believe her granddaughter was telling her off, but slowly resumed her seat. Rosa swirled the wine in the crystal glass she was holding, shimmering crimson, like fresh blood. Without another word, she went off towards the kitchen, and Natalie followed her.

Rosa turned and wrapped an arm around Natalie's shoulders, smiling. Rosa was 19, turning twenty in a few weeks. She grinned. "Little Natalie... Ah, I remember when you were five. You were so noisy. How've you been?"

"Fine, except for tonight."

Rosa laughed. "I want to meet this Sean Conlon boy. Where's he from?"

"Brooklyn."

"Ah. I love their accents. So is he one of those big strong guys who's really a softie when it comes to girls?"

"Umm, actually he's not... He's pretty tough straightforward, but he's good at– Wait a minute," she cried, "I never said I was in love with him, or even liked him!"

Rosa's eyes sparkled, and she lowered her voice. "Sorry to burst your bubble, hon, but I've been dating someone for three years and I'm engaged and I know the signs. And the look on your face when you dragged him down the stairs told me all I needed to know. You fooled the oldies, but not me. Or grandmama. But she's crazy anyway."

"Well," breathed the younger, "Yeah, we are going out. But you've got to promise you won't tell anyone."

"Wouldn't dream of it. Tell me, anything happen yet?"

"Nah, just kissing."

"I see you're starting to get the Brooklyn speak in you, too."

"Really?"

"Yeah, you're catching on to his words. Anyway, I wish the best for you two, but you have to be careful. If anything happens," and she paused and stared at Natalie sternly, "And you know what I mean by _anything_, make sure it isn't for one."

This last line puzzled Natalie, and just as she was about to question it's meaning, who arrived but Sean Conlon himself.

Adorned in his finest clothing and holding a glass of champagne, he looked clean cut and you'd never be able to tell he was, or had ever been, a newsie at any point in his life. He looked dignified... and _hawt._

Rosa smiled sweetly.

"So you're Sean?" she asked, shaking his free hand.

Spot nodded. "Spot," he corrected.

"...Pardon?"

"Call me Spot."

"Uhh, okay... Spot. Natalie here tells me you're from Brooklyn."

Natalie blinked.

"She did, did she?" Spot asked, eyeing her suspiciously. Natalie nodded slightly.

Rosa laughed again. "You guys are so cute!" she squeaked, grinning, "I wish you the best of luck. I'm guessing you guys are pretty serious, if Natalie was able to talk to me the way she just did," Spot and Natalie glanced at each other, "Or so I hope," Rosa added. "I'm off to keep granny from having a cow. Cheers."

She raised her glass, and Spot tapped his against it, making a clinking sound. Rosa then smiled and headed back off into the other room, while Spot sipped the champagne.

"Ya told her 'bout us?" he asked, a bit uneasy.

"No," Natalie replied, "She figured it out."

"She's good."

"No, we suck."

Spot kissed her hand. "Since ya begged me so much ta come see yer family–"

"I didn't ask you to come see my family - just to get down here and stop acting like a creepy antisocial guy living in the attic–"

"Right. Whateva. Intraduce me ta yer _lovin'_ family."

Natalie stopped. After her relatives had so ungraciously acted towards her boyfriend, she was less than eager to let them see him in the flesh. But if she said no, he's get suspicious and probably wander in there himself.

And she didn't feel like being responsible for any murders.

So with a heavy heart, she muttered, "Sure," and guided him into the parlor.

Once again, her relatives fell silent at the sight of him.

"Aunties, uncles, grandparents," she announced, "This is Sean Conlon."

There were a few muttered 'hello's and a ton of whispering. Finally, some brave soul called out, "Are you Catholic, boy?"

Spot shrugged. "I dunno," he said, carelessly. This puzzled many.

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

"Me mudda moved back ta da Green Isle afta she had me, an' I guess she had the family records wit her. But religion ain't really onna my priorities."

"Really, now. What is?"

"Umm, let's see... Well, I don think they're important enough ta say. Stayin' alive."

"Where's your father? Surely he would know?"

"...I don know."

"Do speak up, boy, no one can hear you!"

Indeed, Spot's voice had dropped lower as he spoke, and Natalie could feel him just wishing he hadn't asked to be here. But she sat tight, with some sort of guilty interest - this would be her first time hearing his full background.

"I do think ya want ta know 'bout my dad," Spot repeated, louder.

"Why, I certainly do!"

Spot paused, and silently gulped.

"I don know wheah he is now. Last time I saw him I was seven, turnin' eight. Dat's why I was workin' as a newsie."

Elizabeth cringed. "You've lost your father and your mother, _and _you're a newsie? How horrible."

Natalie was growing angrier at the minute. "Oh no, " she interrupted, "The life of a newsie is so much more interesting."

"I wasn't asking you, deary," said Elizabeth, with a dismissive wave of her hand, "I was asking Steven here."

"Spot," Spot replied.

"What?"

"Sean."

"...Yes."

"You're mother's in Ireland?" someone asked, again.

"Yeah. She left 'cause she didn't like da city."

"What a terrible woman," someone said, and the room fell silent. Spot made a guttural sound from deep in his throat. "Whad ya say?" he growled, menacingly.

"You are such a poor, depraved boy," chipped in Uncle Liam.

"I am _not_ depraved."

"Do you sleep in the gutters and streets?"

"You're a newsie, and partially Italian. That won't get you anywhere! Aren't there any shelters or homes for you people?"

Silence.

Natalie stood up. "Stop it, Grandmama."

"People like me?" Spot asked, darkly. His eyes narrowed with hatred towards the old lady on the sofa.

"You're right," a young girl whispered to her even younger friend, "He _is_ a street rat."

Another silence. Unfortunately for the little girl, Spot had the honor of overhearing her.

"_...What'd ya call me?"_

"Spot," said Natalie, moving swiftly over to where he stood, fists clenched. She reached and gently touched his shoulder reassuringly, but he was in no mood for comfort. "Spot," she whispered again, "Don't do this. It's okay. Just... be calm. My parent's are here, I'll make these ignorant people stop-"

Spot brushed her arm off. "Don't bother," he snarled, "Just when this was lookin' up, dese people," he thrust his thumb towards the cowering family, "Come along an' screw it all up. YOU were da one who told me ta come down an meet yer family. Ya know, if dey was in Brooklyn right now, dey'd be hang–"

Natalie realized that what he'd say would be something violent and gory, so she clamped a hand over his mouth and a few muffled noises came out. Spot stared at her, and before he could object in his gurgle manner, she dragged him back upstairs.

She let him go, and sat as a steady stream of curses wove out of his mouth. When all that was done, she hissed, "Whaddaya think you're doing? Are you trying to get yourself kicked out?"

"Nah, I was hopin' faw sumthin' maw along da lines of _them_ bein' da ones given da axe... But maybe I'm hopin' faw too much," he retorted.

"You have to learn to control yourself! Remember, my parents trust you. Otherwise, they wouldn't have granted you a bedroom."

Spot sighed tiredly, which signified the end of the argument. The familiar pang of guilt had returned, and Natalie tried to picture herself being surrounded in a room full of people who hated her for her background and race and having insults being thrown from all sides. But it must've been Spot's diet, she suspected, otherwise he would've acted quite differently.

"I'm sorry for yelling," she said quietly, "I know you don't need anymore of that."

"S'okay. Wasn't you who was yellin'."

"I love you."

"Mmm." Spot mumbled something - Nope, he hadn't said it.

Natalie ran a hand through her hair, flipping it back. "Now I feel really bad," she admitted, trying to shake the horrid feeling, "How can I make it better?"

Spot smiled halfheartedly. "Naw, don worry. S'okay."

"No, now I feel like I really need to do something. Let me make it up to you."

Spot looked at her curiously. "Whaddaya have in mind?"

Another dirty little thought wedged itself into her brain. And she did not hesitate to do it. Taking Spot by the hand, she led him down the hallway and into the coatroom, closing the door after her.

"It's a coatroom," Spot observed, looking around.

"No duh."

And with that, with a _thump_ that was absorbed by a leather jacket, she pinned him against the wall and kissed him. No rules, no restrictions, no parents... for now. Just him and her and a bench and a jacket. Panting heavily, Spot threw down his fancy vest, wearing suspenders and a white shirt underneath.

Natalie chuckled as her tongue and his danced together, a funny little thought entering her head.

Natalie Catherine O'Rourke did not kiss street rats.

Haha.

Take that.

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A/N: You guys BETTER review for this, it's a friggin 9 pages on my Wordperfect. WOO making out in closets! HUZZAH! 


	23. Dinner at Dawn's

Chapta Twointy-Three

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Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies or the song "Blackbird."

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A/N: Thanks for the reviews! WAH! In this chappie, it's back to Ali and Race, with a few of their own romantic problems, and a song towards the end! If you do not have, I suggest you download - it's really nice, the old and new versions (I perfer the new version, but I won't say who it's by - If I post any names, I get the boot.) So see my site for the music.

Has anyone seen Garen? He hasn't been reviewing or updating... I'm gonna put Whistler in again soon, so I was wondering.

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Dawn's house was huge.

After a long, uninteresting ride up to Locust Point, Racetrack Higgins now found himself in a swirling crowd of guests, looking for a place to settle down. No, he had not actually met Dawn yet, and Ali had gone off somewhere to meet up with her, so he was left standing there like a tree in a river.

Which, in case you haven't seen, doesn't work.

The house was centered in the middle of the property, surrounded from all sides by acres of hills and fields, covered in trees. Race had thought it nearly impossible to have a nice house in the Bronx up until now. (Not that Natalie or Ali's homes weren't nice; he was thinking more along the lines of estate-wise.) It was very old, colonial style, with balconies and arches and gateways and a grand foyer and six bedrooms and everything.

So, frankly, he wasn't surprised when Ali said, with some remorse, "Dawn's one of the wealthiest bi– people in the Bronx."

Then the thoughts came a'creepin', and he began to wonder if Ali was jealous of her rich cousin, and if he was obligated to hate her or not.

Ali, meanwhile, was upstairs in the lounge with Dawn Redder, her 19 year old cousin and daughter of Mary and Paul Redder, wealthy business owners. Dawn had long, blonde hair that she kept in a braid and green eyes that shown in the afternoon sun. Ali approached her cousin at a small card table, playing poker with her older friends.

"I won a hand," Dawn said happily, slapping the cards down. "Pass me the— Oh, Ali!"

She turned around in her seat, and most of her friends gave her cold stares. Ali grinned forcefully. "Hello, Dawn."

Dawn chose to ignore her cousin's hostility. "How've you been?" she asked, smiling with a fake sweetness.

"Fine, just fine," Ali spat.

"Well, don't just stand there! Here, take a chair– Oh, Sarah, Daniel, this is the cousin I was telling you guys about earlier. Ali, this is Sarah Jacobs–" she pointed to a girl who looked like a brown-haired little bo peep, and whose face was having an inner conflict - She was smiling, but her eyes glowered darkly. Ali tried not to sit next to her, she was oddly familiar...

Dawn continued, listing off her friends. "...And this last bunch is Vincent Kappa, her boyfriend. Then there's Daniel Briarfield, Bridget Wright, Sally Markus, and Eric Lief." She pointed on down the table, but Ali had no clue as to why she'd need to know Dawn's friend's names.

Sitting awkwardly, she watched them start another game, and they handed her some cards, but she did not play much. Lief's eyes rested on her, before turning quickly back to his cards. Finally, after he realized she had seen him staring, he asked, "How old are you?"

"Fourteen, turning fifteen in three weeks."

Lief and Briarfield gave each other shifty glances and raised eyebrows over their cards.

"Well, that's not too bad," Lief muttered to himself, but everyone heard nonetheless, "You could've been thirteen..."

"What was that?"

"Say, Andria," he asked, ignoring her question and suddenly leaning over the table, "How would you like it if I went and got you a drink?"

"No, thanks, I don't think so," Ali said, the familiar angry feeling building up. Her stomach twisted.

Lief said nothing for a few minutes, and simply stared at his cards, before he couldn't resist and stood up. Ali watched as he went round the table, up to her left, where he bent over and stared at her cards. Ali looked at him, with something between resentment and curiosity.

"Looks like you've got some good ones there," he said, seeing her three aces and two kings. Ali slapped them down, away from his gaze.

"I know how to play cards," she said, frankly.

"Let me help you. I have a mighty good hand."

And this was pretty obvious, as his hand found it's way onto her ass.

The table fell into dead silence, and it took Ali a few seconds to realize what had just aspired. She turned slowly, not believing the nerve. She tightened up a bit, and Eric grinned, going back to his cards. No one moved.

If looks could kill.

"Don't you _ever_ touch me again," she hissed. Then came the impulse to whap him across the face like the dirty, scum-sucking, airheaded, godforsaken, pig-faced freak of nature he was, but she was above that. There were better things to do for revenge, and bluntly, she believed only girls who wanted to seem cool did that.

Eric sat, staring straight at his cards with a smirk on his face. Dawn was horrified, and not from _his_ behavior. She nudged Ali painfully in the side and whispered angrily, "What do you think you're doing? Eric's _hot_!"

Ali stared at her cousin in disbelief.

No. She did not just say that.

She glanced at Eric. Sure, to some he may be hot, but she was blinded by love for Racetrack to see anyone else. And maybe that was a good thing.

"I... excuse me," she said quietly, rising from her seat, and her chair scraped loudly against the floor as she left the room.

Closing the door and entering the massive hall, she found Racetrack covered in her little cousins, ages 2-6. They apparently found him funny, as it now was Race leaning on the wall, trying to stand up and the kids clinging. Laughing, squirming, and set on anchoring him to the floor. Race was laughing too, and having a grand old time, but when he looked up and saw Ali's grim face, it was replaced by one of concern.

"Heya, Ali," he said, shaking a few kids off his right arm. Something clicked in their little childer minds that this was serious business and they sat and left the older kids alone.

"Race, I need to–"

Race lifted a finger and said, "Oh, wait a minute, I gotta show ya dis - Ok, look what I taught 'em. Hey kiddies, whaddaya say if someone tries ta bet wit ya?"

"How much ya got?" the kids screamed, in unison.

Ali smiled and forced a laugh, and then pulled Race into and empty bedroom and sat down. Her fallace face dropped like a stone in a pond, and Racetrack eyed her. "Ali?" he asked, carefully.

"Race... Did I ever mention I hate Dawn?"

"Nah, I don think ya did... Why? Wha'd she do?"

"The reason I don't like coming is because she thinks I'm a child or something and makes it her business to get me a boyfriend."

Race froze, and his eyes narrowed.

"..._What_?"

Ali gulped. He was not a human made to get angry - it didn't come easily, but when he got pissed off, he was dangerous as an angry Spot Conlon with a gun.

"I was just down there, and she put me next to one of her guy friends."

Race's usually tanned face was an angry shade of scarlet. "...Wheah is he?" He seemed to be having trouble getting the words out without punching something in the process. "I have sumthin' ta give him." And he cracked his knuckles.

"He grabbed my butt."

Race did not move, except a shudder of rage. His face was now pale as death.

"He..." he began.

"Yeah."

Race was shaking in anger, but suddenly, it left him, leaving him drained. His legs feeling weak, he practically fell back, but forced himself to get up.

Ali sighed and gazed at him.

"I love you," she reminded softly, and nuzzled her head into his shoulder. He was warm, and so alive... Ali breathed in, his hair smelling like a sweet cologne and face like shaving cream. He hugged her, but she could still feel the slight contractions of his arms as the fury subsided.

"Yeah," he muttered in agreement, although it had been a while since she had spoken.

But he was not lying. He was happy, happier than he had ever been with anyone else. She was having a better influence on him than any of his other girlfriends had - he hadn't smoked for a week, and the bets he placed, if any, were smaller than what, for his, was usual. They had been together one and a half months or so... he had come to her in October and it was the best period of his life.

Times like these stirred something in him, quiet times where they hugged or kissed and didn't say anything else... As just demonstrated, even his worst tempers could be stepped on when she touched him. And he felt that agreeing when she told him she loved him would not be exaggerating in the least.

After a long time, Ali pulled herself away from him. He had calmed down enough to smile, but that ended as he checked his watch.

"Hell," he muttered, "It's time faw dinna."

And indeed it was. The two found themselves at the children's section of the table for being late. Ali noticed that one of Dawn's friends was missing, one of the girls... Sarah Jacobs. (Which, in turn, would end up being a good thing, but we'll leave it at that.)

Where had she heard that name before?

Soon, heaped upon their plates were mountains of mashed potatoes, giant slices of turkey (with no bones in them), onions, stewed carrots, steaming ham, and whatever else you could think of. The kids bounced around noisily next to them, spilling juice and throwing food. Racetrack tired to keep them under control by making funny 'knock knock' jokes that he thought off the top of his head.

"Knock knock."

"Who's there?"

Ali continued eating her peas.

"Why did the chicken cross the road?" Race asked.

Ali put down her fork and stared at him. He grinned sheepishly. "Wha?" he asked.

"Those are two different jokes, Race."

"'Course dey aren't. Ya ain't neva hoid a Anthony Racetrack Higgins joke if ya think so."

"Tell us!" cried the kids.

"Cause it's betta den crossin' a street in New Yawk!"

Ali snorted; the kids burst into laughter and started banging on the table. But as she turned to start eating again, she saw Dawn giving her a queer look.

Ah. She hadn't met Racetrack yet.

Finally, after Dawn realized Ali caught on to her dirty looks, she made a motion for her cousin to take Sarah's empty seat. Ali hesitated, then said saoftly to race, "I'll be right back." ("Okay," was the reply, with a mouthful of asparagus.) She got up, went around the crowd, and sat down, but did not touch anything.

Dawn leaned over and whispered, "Who's that hot boy right there?"

Ali froze.

Did she just call him 'hot'?

Well, yeah, he was, but he was also her boyfriend, and the name D-A-W-N did not fit in between them.

And this was a perfect opportunity for revenge.

"Oh, I forgot to introduce you!" she said, mimicking her cousin, and made sure all the teens, especially Eric, were listening, "That's Anthony Higgins, my boyfriend."

Racetrack, upon hearing his name, did not know what was going on, so he looked up and waved.

Eric dropped his fork with a clatter onto his place. As did Dawn, but she wasn't upset. Ali silently cheered.

Dawn recovered quickly, if she had even been bothered in the first place. Usually, someone would apologize for saying such a thing, but Dawn had pride and was not someone. "Oh," she said, shrugging, making Ali angry, "How old is he?"

"Umm, eighteen."

Dawn swooned. "Going for older guys, are you now?"

Ali stared at her, "No, I'm not. He just happened to be older than I am, by four years."

Dawn nodded, never taking her eyes off of him, then pushed her chair back and stood up. "I think I'm gonna go talk to him," she said slowly, and Ali's fist clenched. No. She was not going to try and make him hers. She wouldn''t dare.

'_But, oh,' _said a voice in her head,_ 'She would. You know she would.'_

Dawn strutted over and smiled, ignoring the kids. "Hello," she said, smiling and showing all her straight, white teeth. Race smiled back, but Ali read his eyes, and they were cold.

"Hey," he said politely, and moved on to his chicken leg. It was obvious he would have preferred Ali's company, but it was Dawn's house, she there was no making her go away.

"Is your name Anthony?"

Race pulled the skin off the meat. "Ummhfmm, yefff," he said, chewing with his mouth open. Ali watched them, knowing he'd never really act like that unless he really didn't like someone, and began to wonder why she had been afraid he'd be bought by her bullshit act. Dawn cringed for a split second, before resuming her smile and stuck out her hand.

"My name's Dawn, but you already know that... Did Ali mention me?"

'_Conceited much?'_ thought Race, but then shook his head and offered her a hand covered with chicken grease and food.

Dawn barely touched his hand, wincing, and then squatted down next to him. "Don't you think you're a little old for her? I mean, I can't see why someone your age even knows someone as little as her."

"I love her."

"I know, but... Well, lets keep this a secret... I think someone like you deserves better."

'_And you've made that obvious,' _he though, but refused to answer. He knew what she was getting at.

Finally, he swallowed.

"Yer sayin' I'm too old faw her, but yer havin' yer friends grab her? Dat isn't too nice. My mudda taught me ta be nice ta goils."

Dawn didn't say anything, taken aback. She hadn't expected Ali to tell anyone about that... But anger and impatience filled her, and in a huff, she said, "Look, I'll be frank - Just break up with her. For her best interest. You're too old and she's too young. There are better people."

And she smiled.

Racetrack couldn't believe his ears.

Boy, that was direct.

Anger welled up again, and he stood up, done with his meal. Dawn stood up after him, eagerly awaiting an answer she wouldn't get. And Ali was nearly jumping out of her seat.

Race carried his plate into the kitchen and set it on the counter, and turned to Dawn with a cold look. As she opened her mouth to say something, Race cut her off.

"Ya know," he said, "If I didn' have a goilfriend who I thought was da best, den I'd be flattad. But ya don matta ta me, an if ya touch Ali again aw try ta break us up aw have anyone touch her, den this won't be between you an me anymaw. So Happy Thanksgivin'."

Dawn's face was crushed, and it was oddly satisfying, and this was Ali's que. She got up and walked over lightly, as though she hadn't seen any of that. "Hey guys," she said cheerfully. Race wrapped and arm around her waist, but Dawn did not turn her head. Sweet revenge.

"I see you met Dawn," Ali said, kissing Race on the cheek. Dawn still did not move, her mouth hanging open.

Race smiled. "We was jus havin' a talk."

Ali nodded, looking at her cousin. "Ah..." she said, eying her narrowly. "Come on, Race, let's go do something."

Racetrack raised his eyebrows, wondering if this was part of the act or if it was real. "In da mood faw a little maw den talkin'?"

"Yeah."

And they walked into the hallway, where Ali decided to be daring and said quietly, but loudly enough for Dawn to hear, "Let's go seal the deal."

"Sure." And snickering, they ran upstairs, where they had to clamp their hands over their mouths to contain their laughter. For the look of horror on dawn's face had been so great that nothing else to get her was necessary.

After they had calmed down, Race began to notice the pictures and painting on the walls, where he stopped at one of a girl with a skinny body and big eyes.

"That one's scary," Ali commented. Race nodded. "It's called da Blue Rose. My parents had a copy. It was huge. Dey used it ta teach me ta stay in my own bed at night."

"How?"

"When I was little, I used ta run inta dere bed at night cause I'd have a nightmaeh aw' sumthin', so dey hung a giant pitcha of it in dere room. When I'd go in, I'd see it an' get even maw scared and go back inta mine."

"That's so mean!" Ali exclaimed.

"Well, it stopped my night feah."

"But, still... You were only a kid!"

"Ah, well..."

They stood in silence, looking at the picture, before it creeped them out a bit too much and started exploring the hall.

"Heya, Ali?" Race asked, absentmindedly. Ali looked up. He was peering out a window.

"Yeah?"

"I don think yer too young faw me."

Ali smiled, and a wave of relief flooded her, but she hadn't been afraid.

"Thank you," she said.

"What if she tells yer parents?"

And he turned to her, gazing with something like anxiety. Ali shrugged nonchalantly. "Then we'll tell them."

"I don wanna leave."

"I won't let them make you."

Race smiled. "I'm guessin' ya were kiddin' when ya said we could go seal the deal aw' sumthin."

Ali grinned at him. "Not just yet," she promised. "I'm gonna play hard to get."

"Yaw a poet an' ya don even know it," he quipped.

"Stop that," she laughed.

But he was already on to something else. "Ali, look in heah!" he called, opening a random door and peering in. Ali looked in.

The only lights in it were that of candles and a fie crackling merrily away in the fire place. Two comfy sofas and a squishy armchair sat on a burgundy carpet. The walls were wood, a deep, rich brown, with more paintings.

They went in, and Ali closed the door behind her. She walked over to the fire and warmed her hands.

"I like this room," she said, "It's far better than downstairs."

Race nodded his head in agreement, before a platter of cheese and crackers sitting on an end table caught his eye. He picked a cracker up daintily, took a bite, liked it, and popped it in his mouth. He sat down on the sofa, sinking into it as he did, and spotted a bowl of mints. Finishing the cracker, and picked up the bowl. There was one left.

He unwrapped it and put it in the back of his mouth, watching the fire. Ali sat down next to him, and looked at the paintings. The mint smacked against one of Race's teeth and made a _clacking _noise. Ali picked up the bowl.

"Aww," she said, putting it down, "I wanted one."

There was a silence, and they looked at each other, before Racetrack leaned in.

But Ali knew what he was going to do, and was ready.

They kissed, minty coolness flooding her mouth, but it was Race's turn to play hard to get - with the mint. He kept it in his mouth, until it began to dissolve, and he passed it from his tongue to hers.

**Blackbird singing in the dead of night  
Take these broken wings and learn to fly  
All your life  
You were only waiting for this moment to arise  
**

Ali layed back down on the couch, big enough for two, and pulled Racetrack on top of her... She swallowed the mint, but they continued to kiss.

**Blackbird singing in the dead of night  
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see  
All your life  
You were only waiting for this moment to be free  
**

Racetrack said a quick prayer in his mind that she wouldn't be mad as his hands traveled down, down...

**Blackbird fly, b****lackbird fly,****  
Into the light of the dark black night**

Ali was ready.

But this wasn't the right place.

It was Dawn's house. Horrible, evil Dawn. Not her own house. It was at a high risk for a walk in, by the number of guests.

Gasping, she sat up, and Race instantly was off of her.

"No," she said. "Not here."

Race nodded silently, before sighing and standing up. They were not angry at each other, but were feeling a bit awkward... Just a little.

**Blackbird fly, b****lackbird fly,  
Into the light of the dark black night**

And as the end of the day came and the two found themselves back in the carriage, there was an embarrassed silence, but no one said a word.

Like it had never happened.

**Blackbird singing in the dead of night,  
Take these broken wings and learn to fly,  
All your life,  
You were only waiting for this moment to arise,  
You were only waiting for this moment to arise,  
You were only waiting for this moment to arise**

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A/N: Awww, I love them! See what I meant about the new rating? Don't worry, it gets worse. PLEASE REVIEW! 


	24. One Winter Day

Chapta Twenty-Faw

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Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies or any characters in it.

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A/N: Boy, I haven't updated forever. Yeah, I gave myself a break. We all need one once in a while. This chapter is sort of a filler, and I had a major brainfart when writing it... I didn't know what to write, or how to make the transition from one plot point to another. But you can review anyway.

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A week had passed from where we left off. It was now the month of December, bringing ice and frost and freezing winds with it as it came. Both Spot & Natalie and Racetrack & Ali were preparing for Christmas, cutting down trees and setting them up, even though the holidays weren't to be there for three more weeks. Snow covered the ground like a white blanket, and no one dared to go outside without a scarf and gloves and a thick jacket.

Which meant Spot had to stay inside, not having these things.

In fact, it got to be so bad that all he could do was stare out the frosted windows at the snow falling and warm his hands in front of the fire. Natalie's parents, with some hesitation, agreed to let him temporarily halt his newsie work, but when spring came round, he was to start again.

However, he only asked because Natalie encouraged him to - he would have preferred to be outside doing something than inside and sitting around - he was not that kind of person. He tried to help around the house, but as seen before, caused more of a mess than fixed one.

It was one of those nothing days when Spot Conlon was lying in his room, inspecting his slingshot absentmindedly (now rarely used) when Natalie came up. She stood in his doorway and waggled a finger at him.

"An idle mind is the devil's workshop, Spot," she warned, smiling. Spot stared at the ceiling.

"I'm his town centa, den," he said, drawing the rubber band back and shooting an invisible target.

Natalie chuckled and sat on the foot of the bed. "Go see Racetrack."

"Why?"

"You knew he was back, right?"

"Yeah, ya told me. Why do I hafta go see him?"

"I don't know... You look sad. I've never met anyone that can make you happier than him."

"Maybe lata."

Natalie didn't answer, but put her hand out and stroked his forehead. There was a silence, as Spot sighed and Natalie pushed the hair behind his ears. "What's bothering you?" she asked gently.

Three months ago, Spot would've said to back off, or completely ignore this question, believing he was too tough to answer. But, without feeling the least bit uneasy, he said, "I don think I'm da King o' Brooklyn anymaw."

Natalie's smooth face creased into a frown, and she pursed her lips, but did not stop massaging his scalp. "When you come back," she said, after a thoughtful pause, "You'll get your place back and no one will ever challenge it again."

"Yeah, in a dream," he muttered, "Dey're gonna call me a cowad."

"Will they?" Natalie asked, "Or will they admire you for avoiding the whole of New York's police force? I think that takes some skill."

"I dunno if dey'll see it dat way."

"Then make them."

She kissed him tenderly for about five seconds, then stood up. He sat up, but for no reason. Natalie smiled.

"We're decorating the tree today," she informed him, "So you can help if you want to."

"Uh... Sure. Not now, though?"

"No, I have some errands to run... places to go." There was a pause, before she demanded, "Come with me."

"Nah, I'll stay heah..."

"Please?"

"I can't. I don got no clothes faw da weatheah."

Natalie stared at him. Apparently, this was a shock. "...You haven't got any winter wear!"

"Nope."

Natalie was horrified, shaking her head. "That's pretty disgusting, Spot. That, that's really disgusting." At the same time, she was trying not to laugh. "The... That's the King of all Kings."

Spot snorted, and stood up. "I'll go," he offered, feeling a bit better.

But Natalie would have none of that. She took him by the shoulder and sat down. "Oh, no you won't. Do you know how cold it is!"

"Jus' a quick run to da bah," he said, with eyes that could melt stone, and even Natalie couldn't deny the fact that beer warmed people up. She rolled her eyes in defeat.

"Fine. But it's pretty far, just warning you."

"I'll be quick."

"Go, then! Before I decide to keep you here and make you my slave."

A weird grin came onto Spot's face. Smiling, he took a seat. "Now that ya put it that way, stayin' heah sounds betta..."

Natalie shoved him. "Go on, go. Now."

But she was laughing all the same.

Spot scurried into the hallway, down the stairs and out the door, and he was a little taken aback by the temperature. Warmth from the house was surrounding him in a little bubble and he was okay, but he knew from experience it would soon be gone and he'd be left to rely on his clothes and speed.

So it was time to make some haste.

He rubbed his bare arms a few times, then realized he was forgetting something, and reached inside the doorway, where his cane leaned. An odd sight to see, a T-shirt clad boy with bare arms and a cane in the middle of winter. But he had somewhere to get to, and chose to ignore the jeers from the warm, _properly_ dressed passerby.

He strutted along, toeing the line between strutting and sprinting, and was almost at the bar, when he felt a jab from behind. Turning around and putting on his best evil face, he stared.

No one was there.

The crowd of rude people had long since passed him, and it was growing dark. An icy wind picked up, blowing snow into his eyes with a sting.

'_Whateva,'_ he thought, blowing it off, annoyed. He had somewhere to get to, somewhere to go, he was wasting time and energy waiting–

And no sooner had he gotten five steps away then when someone threw a rock at his back.

He spun around, slingshot at the ready.

Not a soul in sight.

He looked at his surroundings. Behind him sat an alley way and a closed up shop. There was no one for at least three or four blocks, and their figures were muddled and blurred. No one could have gotten that far that soon...

There also were no footprints on the ground.

He was beginning to get a bit nervous. It was too eerie here...

Another gust of stinging wind reminded him what his business was, but he could not help feeling someone else was with him on Broken Street.

How right he was.

His slingshot was held by his side, but he kept walking through the biting snow, when suddenly, he heard snow crunching underfoot.

"Well, if it ain't da King of Brooky I be seein'. What on earth is he doin' heah?"

Spot turned ever so slowly around, fearing it would be Curly.

It was not.

A teenager, around his age, stood before him, challenging. Black hair and brown eyes, he looked on Spot fiercely, sneering. Spot gave his famous glare.

"Who da hell are ya?" he growled, his fist clenching the small wooden weapon. He may need to use it.

"Dat don't really matta now, but I'll tell ya lata... So, what is you doin' ova heah? Shouldn't ya be in Brooklyn?"

"Ya know me?"

The boy rolled his eyes snobbishly. "I wouldn't be askin' why ya isn't in Brooklyn if I didn't."

Spot bit his lip. "...Who _are _you!"

The kid before him shrugged. "Like I said, it don't matta. What does matta is da rumors goin' around."

"What rumors?"

"The rumors sayin' yer goin' out wit a certain Natalie O'Rourke."

Spot started to ask, "Nat–" before he froze. Rumors about him and Natalie? How did this kid know - he had never seen him before... It was dangerous that people he didn't even know knew his secrets. What is Natalie's parents heard?

"So, are ya?" The kid pressed, sounding something like... hatred.

"...I don think that's any of yer business."

"Ah, but it is. It's my business what goes on in Natalie's home."

Spot paused, wondering if he should be talking to this guy, before saying, "...Yeah, we are."

A sudden flash of movement, catching everyone off-guard — the boy took a swing at Spot, trying to box his face, but Spot had been preparing the whole time for an attack, and caught the kid's fist.

For a split second, the boy's face reflected shock, but he yanked his hand away and stared coldly at Spot. Spot's slingshot was aimed and pointing...

"Tell me who ya are aw I'll blow ya eye out," he threatened, his lips raised in a snarl. This was not the time to mess with Spot.

The boy seemed hesitant to answer, and looked as though he'd turn and run, but he remained glued to the spot. He bit his lip, looked around, and shrugged.

Spot was getting sick of this bullshit.

"What. Is. Yaw. Name!" he growled, glaring and nearly shoving the kid on the ground.

The boy stared, and made a tiny motion that resembled a shudder...

He seemed to cough out his name, but it was enough for Spot.

"_...Paul Pumming."_

Spot stared, and it was a wonder his mouth didn't just fall right open. Paul Pumming.

Natalie's ex-boyfriend.

Paul Pumming.

It was _him._

Spot racked his brain as fast as he could - How could Pumming know he and Natalie were going out? Racetrack didn't know the guy, and wouldn't tell anyway. Was he following them? Had he gone to her parents?

"_Ya-You..."_ he breathed, shocked.

Pumming glared. "So she's toild ya about me, I presume?" Only the way he said presume sounded like 'prez-oom-i'.

"What are ya doin' heah...?"

"I _live_ heah, genius. So, how's da bitch been? Good, probably - dat's how she'll treat ya in da foist few weeks, den sleep wit ya, den kick ya out." And a devilish grin appeared on his face. "Yeah, she's good in bed, an' she knows it—"

**BAM.**

Pumming's obnoxious words were instantly cut off as Spot aimed a fist at his head.

The blow knocked him down, sent him sprawling on the ground. Apparently, he had never been in a street fight, otherwise he could've seen that coming. Really.

And it was also obvious he didn't know who Spot was. No, he knew that he was Brooklyn's leader, but didn't know exactly how serious Spot Conlon could get when it came to things that were his. No wise fighter would have mentioned Natalie to his face.

Blood spouted from Pumming's nose, and a mixed look of shock and horror came across. His hand traveled to his wound, covering it, and stared up at Spot in fear. And he had good reason - Brooklyn was seething, teeth clenched, ready to pounce on him and hit him again.

'_Self control...'_ he reminded himself, _'Don't want him to talk to Natalie's parents.'_

Pumming scrambled to his feet, blood on the snow, red on white. He kept staring, blood dribbling out from under his hand and down his chin, and his breath came out in rapid puffs. Finally, he stuttered, " I'm g-gonna get ya back...I'm gonna ruin ya."

"Get outta heah."

Pumming didn't feel like being difficult.

He turned and ran.

And, one day, he'd ruin Spot more than any of you can possibly imagine.

One day...

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A/N: Ooh, something to think about! Please R & R! 


	25. That Day

Chapta Twenty-Five

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Disclaimer: I do not own Newsies.

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A/N: First, I must apologize for the **extremely** long halt in writing - took a vacation, I guess you can say. This whole chapter is dedicated to the Manhattan Newsies - takes a bow - You can say this is another filler, I think. Shorter than the last. In fact, _really_ short. Anyway, R & R!

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Jack was tired.

As he sat against a wall, the energy he had left him, to no surprise. It had been a long day, walking up and down the whole west end of Brooklyn. In coming there, he had been questioned by members of Spot's Brooklynite army as to where their leader was, and he had to say he wasn't sure. Mush had returned to Manhattan with Davey and Blink to tend to something with Kloppman, to persuade him to not shut down the shelter from his loss of workers, y'know.

Hetello and his men would be with him any minute- they had been in Brooklyn, in the Sheepshead Bay area. However, unlike himself, Hetello was looking for Whistler. He had also agreed to meet up with them later on.After all, the more people on the team, the better you play.

So there he was, waiting and occasionally checking his watch. God dammit, where _were_ they?

After a few minutes of cold evening silence, a voice called out.

"Hey, Jack. Guess what."

Jack turned his head to see Davey and a few other worn stragglers approaching.

"Wha?"

"Whistler might know where Spot is."

Jack blinked. "Really?"

Davey nodded.

"So you an' Hetello caught up ta him?"

At this, Davey paused and made a an odd little noise. "Well, that's the thing..."

Jack rolled his eyes, expecting the worse. "Ya didn't get him."

Davey sighed. "Nope," he admitted. "I said he _might_ know where he is."

"Oh, so wha is dis now? We're lookin' faw Whistla so we can look faw Spot? Ya know, dat's too complicated. I say we just give up an' let Brooky come back on his own time."

"Since when are you a quitter?"

"I ain't quittin'. But dese guys ain't seen a woim bed faw weeks, an' dey smell like da garbage dey eat. Give em' a rest."

"Jack..."

But, at this time, footsteps came into earshot, and the two bickering boys looked up to see an exhausted Hetello.

"Hey," said Davey, treading cautiously. He didn't look so hot...

Hetello sighed. "Bad news, boys."

"What?" asked Jack, preparing for the worst.

"Brooklyn's gotta new leadah."

There was a silence as these words were absorbed, then a great, _"What!"_

Davey jumped to his feet. "What do you mean! They were searching for him just yesterday!"

Hetello gave a defeated shrug. "Apparently, dey got tired. Can't say I blame em. Dey thought he sold em out aw sumthin and gave up lookin."

"But, how can you do that?" Davey cried, and Hetello asked, "Me?"

"Yeah, you!"

"Listen, ya bastaad, ya lucky I even went ta Brooky faw ya. I coulda–"

"You could've kicked his ass! You were just down there today, you could've challenged whoever-it-is' spot and been the king until we find Spot!"

"Who thinks a dat on a moment's time? Anyway, dey was mad enough at me an' da rest of ya, so no point messin wit em. Dey just chose a run-o-da-mill guy who came outta nowheah an' didn't question what he could do. He said he knew Spot aw sumthin. Dat was it. No strings attached."

There was a pause, and Jack asked the question everyone was afraid to.

"Who?"

It couldn't be Whistler.

He repeated, "Who?"

Hetello shrugged. "I can't really rememba his name... I think it was Paul."

Silence.

_**Paul...**_

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A/N: It'll get better, I apologize again, and please review! 


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